Wednesday, April 15, 2009

I HATE! Utter Incompetence

Below is recent a post from

Someone please make these people go away already!

In response to all of Levi Johnston's fame-humping, Sarah Palin's father, Chuck Heath, is basically calling Levi a deadbeat dad.

In a new interview, Heath says, "I don't agree with what he's doing right now. It's not right. He's broke, so he's trying to capitalize on this. I wish he’d take some of this money he’s making and buy some diapers with it."


Doesn't the government pay for all of Sexy Sarah's stuff?
Jesus, someone needs to slap this asshole. Please note the first sentence of his post - I've bolded and italicized it for your reading convenience. His first sentence is: "Someone please make these people go away already!", referring to family of Alaskan governor Sarah Palin and more specifically the now ongoing feud between Palin's daughter Bristol and her baby-daddy, some high school burnout. But honestly, how f-ing retarded do you need to be to miss the fact that through the very act of posting anything about the Palins on his website, the Faux Hilton is, in fact, perpetuating the Palin's media prevalence and encouraging their truly tacky behavior? He is so transparent and thick-headed it makes me sick.

Believe me - I am just as sick of the Palins as everyone else (I cannot think of a family less-deserving of public interest), but I don't use that exhaustion as fodder to promote myself and my business enterprises. Faux Hilton is the first person to sound the trumpet and complain when certain celebrities and public figures (i.e. the Palins) are beginning to overstay their welcome in the public eye and the media, but it is his complaining that is actually keeping these life-sucking stories in the headlines! DUH! How incompetent can you be???????

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

I HATE! People Who REALLY Want Other People to Think That They're Important

I haven't ever really mentioned this before as I feel like it's ultimately going to get me into some sort of trouble, but the tidbit I'm about to reveal is integral to my story, so here goes... I work for a major entertainment company. (Kind of anti-climactic, right?) Anyway, the building in which my office is located also happens to house a lot of other entertainment / media entities so there are always a bunch of actor-types and 'famous people' running around willy-nilly. You never know when you're going to encounter someone recognizable. Whatever. I'm over it. It's fine. But OBVIOUSLY, if you work in the building, you're aware of the likeliness of a celebrity encounter and, speaking from personal experience here, you are probably jaded by the possibility. In other words, no one has knocked my socks off... yet. (If I ever run into James Franco though, that might change everything... my WHOLE perspective on shit.)

So on to the story: I'm in the basement of the building, hurriedly trying to decide what I want for lunch. As I'm walking down the corridor (which, around lunch time, always becomes somewhat of a mob scene) trying desperately to bob and weave around the hoards of oblivious tourists, I walked by a girl - probably around my age, tall-ish, cute, and exuding the I-desperately-want-everyone-to-think-I'm important vibe - chatting obnoxiously loud on her cell phone. Of course, that last bit about her being desperate was my own immediate personal judgment, but as I came into closer range, she proved herself true to my initial assessment. Her exact quote was as follows, "I just ran into Bill Hader. He is the coolest dude."

Without trying to sound smug, I think what she meant to say was, "I just saw Bill Hader in Hale & Hearty and I almost peed my pants. I was too dumbfounded to speak to him, but I just saw him and I had to call you right away to tell you because this is just so damn exciting. Highlight of my month for sure, but I'm going to pretend that Bill and I are chill so I can wow all these tourists." I love how this chick makes it seem, as she speaks more-than-audibly on her cell phone in an area impossibly crowded with extremely impressionable out-of-towners, that she is friends with Bill Hader, SNL cast member. I would bet my entire annual salary that bitch does not know Bill Hader, not even a little bit.

I really just hate it when people try to exude importance, when in fact, they have none. Even though I work in entertainment (an industry one might consider to be fast-paced and glamorous), I know I am not important. There is nothing glamorous about what I do and I know it. I don't need to try to impress strangers with tales of celebrity run-ins. I would never elevate my career status or name drop the monikers of people to whom I have absolutely no relation or intimate knowledge of in order to make people think I'm more important than I am. It's exhausting and frankly, extremely transparent. And to be perfectly honest, as I walked past the girl on the phone, the 'friend' of Bill Hader, I smiled smugly to myself because I knew, I just knew, that she was embellishing her story. Let's talk about o-b-v-i-o-u-s.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

I HATE! Subway Stairwell Rushers

Each morning, I descend the stairs that lead into the subterranean train system that we here in New York fondly refer to as the subway. And almost every morning, I find that a fellow commuter is in such a rush to get down to the platform that he or she practically knocks me over in the stairwell despite the fact that the train is not (nor is even close to) pulling into the station.

This - as you can imagine - drives me absolutely bonkers. First of all, let's consider how common sense might play into this scenario. Why run down the stairs - stairs which are narrow, often slippery, littered with garbage and pools of standing water - and risk falling on your ass? But more importantly, why rush down the stairs when the train isn't even coming? You can determine whether the train is approaching from above ground, so if it's obviously not, why is it necessary to push other commuters out of the way in order to get down to the platform?

It gives me anxiety - unnecessary anxiety - to hear someone's hurried footsteps approaching as I cautiously make my way down the stairs into the station. If the train is coming, I assure you, I'll be rushing too, but if there's radio silence, frankly, you rushing up behind me really makes me want to trip you and watch as you tumble down the concrete stairs. (Honesty is the best policy!)

I just don't understand why people need to rush when there is no train to rush for. I know taking the subway is an exciting experience - loud noises, fast trains, lots of people - but you'd think New Yorkers would be able to contain their excitement and maintain a bit of composure. Pushing? A bit 3rd grade, don't you think?

Friday, March 13, 2009

I HATE! Assholes - Part Deux

I have a confession to make. I (gulp) wore my sunglasses on the subway last week. I know! I know! It's awful. But I had a really legit excuse for committing such an egregious hypocrisy. And you know that I wouldn't have worn sunglasses inside unless I had a really, really, really good excuse... I can only afford to look like that big of an asshole once or twice a year!

The excuse is as follows: I went to the dermatologist last week one day after work for a follow-up appointment. My first visit was rather tame - a consultation really - so I wasn't expecting anything too different the second time around. The doctor, apparently, had other plans and immediately went to work on my face. She wiped off all of my make up (with a towelette that was so saturated with alcohol that it could have been used as an anesthesia substitute) and then proceeded to poke and prod my face with some sort of crazy-looking metal tool that I initially thought to be a medieval instrument of torture.

To put it bluntly, I left the doctor's office looking like my face got stuck between a rock and a cheese grater. I had planned on reapplying 'my face' before I went back out in public, but the doctor had just blown up my spot by saying that the "large amount of make-up" I wear was probably the reason for my clogged pores, and even though I am somewhat vain, I'm not a glutton for punishment. So in lieu of the make-up, I searched my purse to try to find something that might help me to conceal my battle wounds. Save covering my entire face with a tissue, the best I could do was my (brand-new!) sunglasses. In MacGuyver-like fashion, I managed to create a disguise for myself using only the sunglasses and my hair, succeeding in almost completely concealing my identity (and the cheese-greater face). Brilliant!

Don't mind the lengthy transgression - on to the real point of this post. So here I am, walking the streets of New York at dusk idiotically wearing sunglasses as if I'm hiding from the paparazzi. I am already self-conscious enough at this point because I'm feeling super hypocritical, like a real douche. After all, I'm the one who always makes fun of those who do just what I was doing at that instant - wearing sunglasses despite the lack of sunlight. If I could have seen myself, I'm sure I would make fun of me.

Anyway, as I'm making my way to the subway, I begin to notice that people are staring at me, without even trying to hide it - just blatantly looking me up and down with expressions ranging from the stifled, cynical smirk to the completely unbridled sneer of disapproval. Let me make something clear to all the morons I encountered on the street that day: just because I am wearing sunglasses does not mean that I am blind and cannot see the way you are looking at me! Are you people retarded?!?! Correct me if I'm making assumptions here, but Ray-Ban Wayfarers usually aren't the type of glasses that might indicate that one is blind. While you may not be able to see my eyes, I can certainly still see yours AND that horribly judgemental expression written all over your face!!! My dark glasses do not obscure my view of you or any of the other people checking me out (sleazy businessman in cheap suit) or giving me undeserved dirty looks (overly made-up middle-aged woman carrying the wonky-eyed lap dog).

I'm the one wearing the sunglasses! I'm the one who should be secretly judging people! If you're going to overreact to me, my appearance, or the fact that I'm wearing sunglasses at dusk, at least demonstrate a little bit of decorum and try to hide your judgement! It's the only way to be :-)

P.S. I just found out that there is actually a song called Sunglasses at Night written and performed by a fellow named Corey Hart. He wears his sunglasses at night so he can "watch you weave and breath your story lines" and also so he can"keep track of visions" in his eyes. Hmmm... I'm not sure I approve.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

I HATE! Assholes

eccentrichic: for someone so small you have a lot of anger
eccentrichic: what about being told to go back to LI?
Kelirish18: hahahah
Kelirish18: i'm not very small
Kelirish18: but yes, the anger abounds

I doubt there are any habitual readers of this blog, but if there are, I'm sure it has become apparent that my posts come in waves. For a week or two, I'll be filled with rage toward everything and anything and therefore, be inspired to write a feverish number of posts in a short amount of time. Other times, I'll have a weeks-long lull in posting. I'm apathetic and lethargic and nothing makes me particularly angry. (Ok, I just laughed out loud. That statement is not true, not even a little bit; I'm always angry about something, but there are times when I am just too damn lazy to type the word 'blogger' into my browser.) Obviously, the recent weeks past have been one of said lulls and in an effort to be more productive in getting my message of anger out to the masses, I asked a good friend of mine for some suggestions as to what I might write about next. (See excerpt from AIM conversation above.)

Genius that she is, she struck pure gold with one of her suggestions. Why I had not thought to write about this incident earlier, I don't know.

Let me preface the following tale by saying that this post is going to be a bit different from the others, in the sense that it will be focused around one particular incident rather than explaining why a specific source (person, place, thing) is worthy of my hatred.

I had just arrived back into NYC after spending the holidays on the west coast. It was New Years Eve and because I had just been traveling, I hadn't made any concrete New Years plans. So I spent the night at home with my roommates drinking champagne and counting down the minutes to the New Year. After a relatively unexciting ball-drop, I got a call from an old friend from high school (let's call him Goldy) asking me to come meet him at a bar uptown. Eager to fill my night with a bit more fanfare, I happily obliged.

After a bit of confusion over the actual location of the bar in question, I finally met up with Goldy. Because it was just the two of us (the rest of his party had mysteriously disappeared), we took a seat at the bar. For New Years Eve, the bar was pretty dead save for a small group standing right behind Goldy and I at the bar. Everything was going just fine, Goldy and I were chatting, catching up, swapping stories, etc. when one of the girls standing the group behind us (let's call her AssholeFace) elbows me in the back. An accident, I'm sure. Two minutes later, she does it again. I take a deep breath, internally blame it on the girly drink she has in her hand, and go back to my conversation with Goldy. A few seconds later, there the elbow is again, in my back, and harder this time. I turn around and, in the most pleasant and polite way, ask AssholeFace to stop elbowing me in the back. She ignores me. I turn back to Goldy, trying to maintain my composure. Mere seconds pass before I feel the elbow again. I tried to control myself (ok, no I didn't), but I snapped around and forcefully told (read: yelled) AssholeFace to "stop fucking elbowing me in the back." I guess I finally got her attention because she called me ugly and told me to shut up. I turned my back on her again, hoping she had taken my point, and was planning on ignoring her until she left. I mean, what can you say when someone calls you ugly? "No, I'm not"? Not a very good comeback. But then again, calling someone ugly is a desperate, floundering, middle school insult.

I really thought that would be it. I really wasn't trying to get into a fight. (And I'll make a confession here, when it comes to fighting, I tend to do more talking about fighting than actual fighting.) But a few moments later, AssholeFace crossed the line and I couldn't let her foolish and asinine behavior go unpunished. As I tried to continue my conversation with Goldy, I heard her yell, "Go back to Long Island!" Obviously being the tipping point, I literally jumped out of my bar stool and lunged at her, kind of crowd surfing atop the rest of her group of friends. It was over in an instant. I think I was able to get a firm grip on a chunk of stringy, overly-styled, bridge-and-tunnel-hair, while she managed to claw me in the face before Goldy pulled me off of her. Out of nowhere, the bar's bouncer appeared and practically picked AssholeFace up and threw her out of the bar.

Despite my obvious victory, I was seething at AssholeFace's insult. Long Island? Me? She told me to go back to Long Island? I was flabbergasted, especially because AssholeFace looked like she came right out of Jersey City with her crunchy, overly-teased hair and ten pounds of eyeliner. What an asshole. There is simply no way that I could be misjudged for someone from Long Island. Do I look like I come from Long Island? Do I sound like I come from Long Island? I believe the answer to both of those questions is no. A big HELL NO.

Anyway, the moral of my long-winded story is that I hate assholes. Specifically assholes who elbow me in the back at bars and then tell me to go back to Long Island.

Monday, March 2, 2009

I HATE! Ed Hardy

I'll openly admit that I love VH1. I love the fact that the formerly-music-based cable net now primarily airs reality programming. I also love the fact that virtually every show the net broadcasts is a spin/rip-off of the one launched right before it. (The Surreal Life - Strange Love - Flavor of Love - Rock of Love - I Love New York - Real Chance of Love - Charm School - I Love Money... the list goes on and on.) I love the caliber (i.e. extreme levels of trashiness) of the contestants featured on said reality shows.

In fact, I'll even go as far as to say that I've learned a great deal from the countless hours I've spent glued to VH1's back-to-back line-up of stippers, excessive drinking, and humiliatingly debasing physical competition; a few select gems: don't get so drunk that you sleep through your first elimination ceremony, don't play roller derby if you have breast implants (they might burst), don't call the boyfriend you still have at home while you're on a reality show hoping to find love with an aging rock star (cameras are always filming), and hocking a loogie into someone's eye is the deepest insult you can hurl (both literally and figuratively) at someone.

While clearly I've learned a great deal about etiquette and decorum from watching VH1's fabulous, white-trash-laced line-up, there is one thing that is prevalent on the network that I will never incorporate into my own life. I will never, ever, ever (you'd have to kill me first) adorn my body with an article of clothing designed for Christian Audigier's brand Ed Hardy. (Keep in mind, I use the word 'designed' loosely here because as far as I'm concerned everything in this 'collection' is created by a retired tattoo artist with a Lisa Frank stencil left over from middle school and some neon Crayola fabric paint I found in the back of my closet.)

So I'm sure you get my drift. I absolutely detest Ed Hardy. Detest it. It absolutely screams "I'm trashy". Ed Hardy is one of those brands that people buy because they want people to know they've spent a lot of money on their clothing. And it clearly doesn't matter that everything produced under that label is utterly abhorrent. When I say Crayola puff paint and Lisa Frank stencils, I'm not joking around. Ed Hardy designs strike me as the result of a collaboration between a musclebound tattoo artist and a three-year-old coloring-book-enthusiast.

Sometimes I look at people wearing articles of Ed Hardy clothing and I think to myself that Christian Audigier must be playing a big joke on everyone; he creates the most hiedous clothing possible, charges a ridiculously large amount of money for even the smallest, most obsolete piece (read: belt buckle and/or bedazzled trucker hat), and sees how may idiots he can trick into buying and wearing his strikingly hideous garments. Then, I gesticulate, he laughs at everyone stupid enough to fall for his brillant scheme and then spends the rest of his day rolling around in all the cash he's made.

And when you look at the clientele to whom Ed Hardy caters, that scenario doesn't seem so inplausible. The entire cast of Rock of Love is pretty much decked head-to-toe in Ed Hardy and they're just about as trashy as you can get. Other notable (and point-making) fans include Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, Madonna, Ceiling Eyes and Plastic Surgery Barbie from that show The Hills, Ashley Tisdale, Carmen Electra, Tara Reid... need I say more?

As an afterthought, I guess I have to clarify something as I started this post with somewhat of a trangression: I love to watch VH1, yes, but more specifically, I love to watch VH1 and laugh at how the quest for fame and fortune can cause people to behave in the most ridiculous ways in front of millions of people. Wearing Ed Hardy from head-to-toe falls into the 'ridiculous behavior' category. It's a blatant attempt to broadcast how much money you've spent on your ensemble, no matter how fucking ugly the clothing actually is.

P.S. I have just found out that Christian Audigier is also responsible for the Von Dutch phenomenon, a cause championed by another one of my faves, Mr. Ashton Kutcher. This tibit speaks for itself.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

I HATE! The Lack of Bathroom Engineering

Is there such a thing as a bathroom engineer? This afternoon, it crossed my mind that there must be someone whose job it is to design the lay-out of public restrooms. The official title of said profession, I am unsure of, but with these people, I have some serious, serious beef.

Let's walk through my grievance together, shall we? You go to the restroom, finish up in the stall, wash your hands, and then reach for a paper towel. Has anyone else noticed that paper towel dispensers are almost ALWAYS mounted on the wall at an elevated height? Seems like not such a big deal, right? THINK AGAIN. Imagine this: you reach up (with your dripping wet hands) to turn the dispenser handle, wave your hand under the motion sensor, pull the towel down, whatever, and then all of a sudden, you realize that gravity has kicked in and water is rapidly dripping down your arm and into the sleeves of your shirt. For some reason, this irks the shit out of me. Having beads of water sliding into my shirt sleeves really bums me out. OK, I'll be honest, it actually infuriates me. (And, for the record, even if it's seasonly warm month and I'm not wearing long sleeves, having droplets of water gliding down my arm is not any more pleasant.)

So this brings me to my main point: why, can't these (seemingly allusive) bathroom engineers come to their senses and realize that paper towel dispensers should not be elevated, but in fact, be adhered to the wall at hand-level at least. If I were to design a bathroom, I would actually situate these dispensers lower than hand level in order to ensure that the excess hand-washing-water dripped off the hands and onto the floor, and not off of the hands, down the arms, and into the shirt. Is this not common sense?
P.S. If anyone knows someone who is employed as what I'm referring to as a bathroom engineer, please let me know. I'd love to contact him or her with my suggestion.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

I HATE! That I Don't Really Hate this Post

Given that this blog is called 'I Hate!' it would be weird for me to post something that I do not hate, but thanks to the brilliance that is 'Best of Craigslist', it looks like I may have found my soulmate (assuming the anonymous post that I am going to re-post here momentarily was written by a dude). The similarities between the opinons (and pet-peeves) of Mr. Anonymous and myself are striking and normally, I would have assumed that this fellow (whoever he may be) read my blog and jacked my opinions (the tone is SO similar, it's borderline ridic), but this post was written in 2007, so that scenario is not even possible. Read the post below and tell me we're not on the same wavelength. It's f-ing eerie. Or maybe we're the only two reasonable people in this f-ing city... Regardless, I'm in love!

best of craigslist > new york > NYC SUBWAY RANT: JESUS CHRIST!
Originally Posted: Mon, 6 Aug 14:33 EDT
Date: 2007-08-06, 2:33PM EDT

OK, I have been riding the subway every day for a lot of years. When you start riding, it doesn't take a much time to see all sorts of characters. At first, these people sightings might be somewhat shocking or even funny, but you begin to grow used to the pants less, toothless, yelling, drunk, cracked out, stinky, sweaty, and perverted characters that ride the subway. They really don't bother you much; in fact I welcome a little cameo from these guys once in a while. After all, it is part of our city culture. That said I have compiled a list – a spilling of my mental Rolodex of the people I share the subway with on a daily basis. These are the monsters I can't get used to and won't accept. They annoy the ever-loving piss out of me. Thing is, I never see these hooligans all at once, but I do see one at least once a day.

- Lady that fans herself with a piece of paper in the train car with broken a/c: Look lady, the air is hot. Not just your air but everyone's air. We are all breathing in each other's nasty hot breath and germs and here you go creating a gust of hot wind. This does not cool you down and it is especially fucking annoying when the car happens to be stuck that day, all is silent and we are forced to listen to the flip flopping of your paper up and down as you breath in and out deeply. So fucking ridiculous.

- Chinese guy with yellow nails and a bag of chicken feet: Dude, I'm not even kidding, you are nasty as hell. No one likes a set of long man-nails near them EVER and here you are wrapping those daggers around the center subway pole nearly slicing innocent bystanders as the plastic bag of chicken feet sways near your legs. Oh yes, and what are you going to do with those chicken feet anyway? Take advantage of us poor unknowing customers by grinding them up to use as filler in the next batch of HAPPY FAMILY from the local Jade Garden? I mean Jesus.

- Asshole with the sunglasses on: OK, there is no sunshine on the subway. This is not the L train pal. You sit there with your black as night shades on clearly staring at people for as long as you please. That's just wrong. Your probably staring at the lady's tits who is standing above you or even undressing some poor middle schooler with your eyes. Not only are you taking ample amounts of time to fanaticize about unsuspecting riders, but you look like an idiot doing it. This is especially worse when you also chew gum with an open mouth like a friggin' cow. You are drawing attention to yourself now and I can tell by the direction of your neck muscles that you were staring at me! Lady on the 8:30 F train Monday morning - you know who you are!

- Jerk that leans over you to look at the subway map: OK, your ball sac is 2 inches from my face. You don't care do you? Even though you've traumatized me and I lean back in my seat to shy far far away from your jewels, you lean in closer to get a better look at where to transfer from the E to the D train! Yuk man, have some manners. This is worse when you are sleeping with your head in your hands and wake to find a pants slacks covered man bulge in your grill.

- Ghostfarter: OK, I know it may be hard to hold it, but if you had diarrhea this morning of course your farts are going to reek! I mean the train is crowded with little ventilation yet you subject us to the rotten remnants of your ass-meal. This is inconsiderate and nasty! Hey if one clipped out, OK - it's happened to the best of us but you try to move around a bit and circulate. Don’t just stand there and poof out stinker after stinker while you read your paper! I'm talking about the well-dressed guy in the suit or the one hot chic on the train, it was probably you!

- Asshole with the book bag: If your bag more than 3 inches off of your back for god's sakes put it in front of you toward the floor! This is common knowledge!! I can't tell you how many times some retard with a book bag extending 3 feet tall off his back has decided to turn around and talk to his friend or bend down to tie his shoe and clock me one without knowing the difference. Yeah, that was me who bumped you on purpose. I hate you!

- Lady that hugs the pole on a crowded train: Are you fucking blind!?? There are other people riding the train with you jerk but yet you proceed to make sweet love to the silver pole. Can we maybe hold on for a second TOO so we don't break and ankle??!!! Then, when we ask you to move you PRETEND you don't speak English. Real nice. Why don't you walk to work with a broomstick and hug that you shitbag.

- Nail Clipping Fool: This means you regular business guy with no regard or oblivious Asian lady. Jesus Christ, does anyone have manners?? DO NOT CLIP YOUR NAILS ON THE SUBWAY! I should be making signs for god's sakes! Not only are we subjected to the resonating sound of your clipping but your nail shrapnel is flying every which way and hitting men, women and children. This is by far the most disgusting thing ever. I'd like to take a free shot at your gut while fellow train riders hold you up.

Location: NYC

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

I HATE! When People Don't Hold Doors

I really love it when someone lets a door slam in my face. Like I really fucking love it. I'm in no way exaggerating when I say that I get a door slammed in my face at least once a day, sometimes more. The usual culprits are businessmen (whose tailored suits would wrongly suggest that they have at least an iota of etiquette). Often, foreign-language-speaking-tourists are to blame. (Look, I know America is one of the most hated countries in the world [thanks G.W.!], but come on, you can't blame the language / cultural barrier for everything! And by the way, everyone is on to you about supposedly not knowing how to tip.) But the majority of the time, it's just oblivious assholes, New Yorkers, fingers glued to their Blackberries and iPods, who can't take the time or exert the energy to extend an arm and hold the door for the frazzled girl with the monstrous purse, venti coffee, and overloaded weekend bag. (Yep, it happened to me this morning!)

And you know what? It really baffles me, really boggles my mind. How hard is it really to hold the door for someone? Unless you're a paraplegic, this shouldn't be an issue. It shouldn't even command a second thought. It should be a natural instinct, a second nature, if you will. Even if I'm not aware that there is someone walking behind me, I'll still hold the door open a few extra seconds, just to be sure I don't inadvertently slam the door in some unwitting person's face.

Fuck that nonsense about New Yorkers being rude; rude has nothing to do with it. Rude is when I drop my Blackberry on the subway and it lands under another, seated rider's feet and that person doesn't even move a muscle to attempt to bend down to retrieve it for me. Holding a door open for the person behind you is common fucking courtesy. Plain and simple. And no only is it common courtesy, but holding the door for the person behind you also helps promote efficiency, productivity, and the flow of movement. Listen to me! I'm mounting a case for holding doors based on a platform of efficiency. That's how you know humanity is in bad shape!

Hold a door. Prevent a senseless nose job.

I HATE! Improper Yoga Etiquette - Part Deux

The solution is obvious. I should probably never go back to yoga. I simply cannot escape the weirdos. It seems that the yoga studio I attend is a mecca for everything I hate in life. I'm beginning to feel like every time I attend a class, I discover something that is newly infuriating. The thing is, I do actually like the practice of yoga as an form of exercise, given that I've recently found myself to be substantially less motivated to do anything vigorous (save my weekly soccer games). And this really sucks because I just can't seem to escape the seemingly mocking torment of some of the utterly ridiculous behavior I've been witness to during yoga.

Example #1: Excessive and Continual Passing of Gas by Girl on Mat in Front of Me

We all have the same bodily functions. I get it; I can't knock an escaped fart here or there, but look, if you're having some severe intestinal and/or bowel issues, it's probably best NOT to attend a class where you have you ass in someone else's face for the majority of the time. I think that makes perfect sense. If I was having problems with my plumbing, I would 100% avoid yoga at all costs until the issue had been cleared up. I would be utterly mortified if I had the misfortune to accidentally let one rip right into someone's face. Apparently, though, this isn't necessarily common sense.

A few weeks ago, I attended a yoga class during which, the girl on the mat in front of me kept farting - not once, not a few times, but continuously throughout the ENTIRE CLASS. And, pardon the expression, but this gas-passing sounded rather juicy in nature - like there was something chronic going on. Initially, I gave this girl the benefit of the doubt, assuming that her undoubtedly sweaty hands / feet were making weird noises against her rubber mat, but as the noises continued, it became painfully obvious what was going on. And I couldn't believe it! Have a little decorum - and if not on your own behalf, at least avoid yoga for the sake of everyone else cooped up in that hot, sweaty room with you.

Example #2: Being Told Not to Chew Gum By Instructor of Equal Age

I do not go to yoga to be bossed around by the instructors. When I get bossed around or told what to do by someone who does not have authority or seniority to do so, I get angry and getting angry is counterproductive to the underlying goals of yoga. Unfortunately, most of the instructors I have encountered manage to piss me off in one respect or another, but I deal with it because yoga is good for both my physical and emotional well-being and stability. Generally speaking, I have found some qualm about every single one of them; i.e her voice is too squeaky, she doesn't stop talking for two seconds, he speaks in monotone - I'm falling asleep, she goes around 'adjusting' only the males in the class, etc... My most recent encounter, however, takes the fucking cake.

I'm doing my poses, minding my own business, chewing some recently purchased Orbit Sweet Mint (my fave), when this asshat instructor (who one of my roommates refers to as an 'Abercrombie model turned hippie-yoga instructor'), comes over and begins to adjust my pose while uttering the following phrase: 'It might be easier for you if you spit out that gum.' Pardon me? Pardon me? I was in shock. Who did this guys think he was? First of all, he was, most definitely no more than a year or two older than me at that and secondly, when did yoga instructors get free rain to boss their 'students' around like they're fucking teaching remedial middle school math?

Example #3: Things Not to Wear to Yoga 101: Full Make-Up, Jewelry & Halter Tops

The very same day I was forcibly regressed back to middle school, I happened to look behind me while in downward dog and noticed that the woman holding that spot was wearing not only an excessive amount of jewelry (big, dangly earrings, chunky necklace), but also a full face of make-up (perhaps even complete with false eyelashes), AND a halter top (that wasn't haltering anything, if you catch my drift). I'm assuming that this woman must have been trying to impress someone because there is really no other explanation as to why you would show up to yoga decked out with rings on your fingers and bells on your toes. I'm convinced that this woman had some sort of ulterior motive because she wasn't even following the flow as everyone else was; she was totally doing her own thing, which included some pretty complicated poses. Clearly, this woman was not an amateur.

Fact: if you've come to yoga with make-up on, you'd better believe you'll have sweated it clean off before the class is finished. Jewelry could only be an additional annoyance, banging all over the place as you're flipping your head upside down every 3 minutes, and the halter top... I wouldn't even begin to know how to make sense of that. There is such a large margin for error there; I can't comprehend it.

I HATE! Expensive Salads

Sounds a little funny, right? But it's not. This is a serious issue and it's taken me a long time to realize just how detrimental expensive salads have been to my psyche and the toll they've taken on my young, fragile, and financially-insecure life.

Here's my thought: everything that is found in a salad (save eggs, various meat products, croutons, and some other assorted accoutrement) come from the earth (and technically, even those exceptions originate there at some point - take a look at that food chain). This ultimately means that you could theoretically grow all salad ingredients in your backyard, on your farm, or in your window planter. And this is precisely why I cannot understand why salads can cost so much. I could grow all of this shit in my backyard, wash it, cut it up, throw it together, spritz it with some dressing (I just love those Wishbone Salad Spritzers), and bring it to work for lunch instead of dragging my ass downstairs to pay $12 plus for a wonky salad with wilted brown lettuce and ingredients that have been sitting out unrefrigerated for hours on end.

And this nonsense about charging PER ingredient? No, no, no, no, no - completely unacceptable. I could buy an entire avocado for the $3.50 they charge me for the spoonful of browning mush they have the nerve to call guacamole. And if you're going to charge for croutons, at least have the decency to go with the high-end toasted garlic croutons, not those bullshit croutons used to make gloppy Thanksgiving Day stuffing.

Of course, I could probably never actually bring myself to go through the laborious process of growing my own veggies (hating dirt and not having even a window box are probably both serious initial setbacks), but I'm just saying, it's totally possible. I guess that's what these salad places are banking on.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

I HATE! Inappropriate Use of Text Message Abbreviations in Non -Text Settings and AIM -Speak in General

emdemas3: kewl

emdemas3: hahahaha

emdemas3: i HATE when people type kewl

emdemas3: and skool

emdemas3: and l8r h8r

This past weekend, my roommate and I had the pleasure of watching a film which should be considered by all to be a truly significant piece of cinematic brilliance: Bring it On: All or Nothing starring Hayden "I have really fat upper arms for such a tiny girl" Panetierre and Solange "I know this is as good as it's going to get for me" Knowles - Smith. Really an excellent, excellent film.

Anyway, I'm sure you know what the basic premise of this movie is: blonde cheerleader (Panties) leaves perfect high school scenario (head cheeleader, quarterback boyfriend, baby blue convertible VW Bug) when her father get's demoted (or something like that, I wasn't 100% sure what was actually happening here) to a job based in minority-centric part of town. Said blonde cheerleader is, initially, taunted by and at odds with the head cheerleader at her new, more ethnically diverse school (cue Beyonce's sister), but then, the two realize they can work together to kick Blondie's old team's asses (oh, Blondie's old friends and boyfriend all turn out to be skanks, basically) in a cheerleading competition hosted by Rihanna (clearly, her appearance in this film is something Rihanna undoubtedly regrets now that she has achieved multi-platinum success).

So, that, in a nutshell is the jyst. Moving on to my actual point. In Bring it On: All or Nothing, Panties and her troup of blonde lollipop-headed cheerleaders speak in text message. Yep, you heard me right; the entire first half of the movie (until Panties move to Crenshaw or whereever), consists of a rapid crossfire of "BRB!," "TTYL," "LMAO," and "OMG" as if these phrases were everyday speak. Jesus, it sounds ridiculous.

Watching that little gem of cinematic magic got me thinking about the use of AIM and text abbreviations, which are both equally unacceptable. When you're writing me a text or an AIM, do not write "kewl" - first of all, it looks like you can't spell and secondly, i thought the purpose of text and AIM abbrevs was so you could shorten the word and wouldn't have to type as many letters. "Kewl" and "cool" HAVE THE SAME AMOUNT OF LETTERS, dumbass! Thirdly, anyone who types "kewl" is automatically an A-Grade Douchebag.

While typing "skool" may save you the trouble of typing one extra letter, let's be serious, the time you save by doing this, does, in no way, balance out how retarded people assume you are because you typed "sckool" instead of "school". Moral: take the extra second to type the "ch". I promise, it'll make you a winner in life.

Finally, I have no comment on "l8r" an "h8r". I will never, ever, in my life spell a word using a letter to lessen the number of strokes I have to make on the text keypad. Yes, "l8r" is quicker to type, but boy oh boy, do you look dumb.

I HATE! Flakes (A Guest Post by Elizabeth Demas)

Since it has come to my attention that I am not the only one who often harbors inexplicably intense and adamant hatred toward specific entities, actions, and people, I have decided to open this blog to guest posts.

Don't worry, there certainly are some stipulations to this new feature. I can't just be having any Johnny Whatshisfacewhoiprobablyhate blogging on this site. Oooooooh no. Guest posts are limited to only those posts that I agree with and only ones written by people I like.

Below, you will find a particularly poignant post articulated by a dear friend of mine, Elizabeth Demas.

I hate tardiness, when people do not show up, don't return calls, texts, BBMs, emails, or don't RSVP. If there is one thing that I find to be excessively unpleasant, it is flakiness. To the perpetrator it may seem like an innocuous blunder, but to me, being unreliable is a fatal flaw, an Achilles heel if you will. It is the antithesis of decorum! If you can't muster up the decency to return a phone call or text, etc. then why do you have a cell phone? Stop saving your rollover minutes and call a bitch back.

Also, don't lie and say, "Ohhh, I never got your text." First of all, unless you still carry around your father's 28 ounce 1984 Motorola DynaTAC phone, you didn't lose my text; it didn't get slipped under a rug anywhere or get dropped between a sidewalk grate. Now, if you had any manners, you would kindly tell the person, "I am sorry; I made other plans", or, put it bluntly, "I don't like hanging out with you." Cut out the middleman, after all, isn't it better than hearing the same guilty pleasure song blasting from your cell phone over and over again or the excessive chirp of your text inbox.

Also, it really irks me when you make plans with a group of people, and one or two people do not show. Instead, they constantly text or BBM you all night asking you your whereabouts, but never actually show. Don't bother me when I am trying to have a drink. Seriously. The last thing I want to do is be typing over and over again the same address of a bar we made plans to go to 48 hours ago. All I want to concentrate on at that particular moment is drinking my Blue Moon, perfectly garnished with an orange slice.

Indeed, the irritation of a flake knows no bounds when it comes to my personal life. I always try to be on time and respond to people. In fact, it's one of the very few times I EVER adhere to a facet of the golden rule, "do unto others as you would have others do unto you." --ED

Monday, January 12, 2009

I HATE! When (You're a Girl) and You Can't Get a Female Bartender's Attention

I don't know if this happens anywhere else in the world, but in New York, bartenders usually tend to exude the attitude that they think that they're God's gifts to the world. (And I don't mean to diminish the immense impact generated by all the great things bartenders do. They may not be saving the rain forest, fighting poverty, or campaigning to end any world wars, but they do dispense copious amounts of over-priced alcohol to happy-hour-clamoring, booze-thirsty patrons.) And in that same vein, it kind of makes me furious when I practically have to throw myself over the bar in order to get a bartender's attention. When there are 40 million people at the bar, practically stepping on top of each other to try to get a drink, obviously I don't take it personally when it takes a few minutes for the bartender to make his or her way over to me. What I do mind, however, is when I am not-so-conspicuously ignored by a female bartender simply because I am also female.

I get it. I get the mentality behind this nonsense. Female bartenders probably assume that bar patrons of the male variety will be more generous tippers simply because of the inherent laws of male / female sexual and physical attraction. But seriously, this infuriates me. A guy may tip a female bartender more because she is hot; I won't deny that, but if a female bartender provides me with good service (no pun intended), I will tip her equally as well as the dude who tipped her based solely on her appearance.

I've been ignored by a female bartender more times that I can count on both hands and it really makes me want to punch a bitch. I'm not particularly hostile to female bartenders from the get-go - I'm not a girl bartender bigot or anything like that; I just don't like to be discriminated against, which, if you think about it, is exactly what this is. I am being discriminated against based on my gender, by a person of my same gender, which is just SO much worse!

Maybe that whole chicks before dicks thing doesn't apply when there's money involved...

I HATE! Celebrities with Two First Names

Shannon Elizabeth. Tom Brady. Katy Perry. Lily Allen. Kevin James. Amanda Peet. Tina Fey. Chris Martin. Tracy Morgan. These are all famous examples of people who have two first names. And, you know, there is just something about people with two first names that irks me. Not exactly sure why this is, but I think it might have something to do with the fact these two-first-name celebrity names are actually stage names and not, these folks' birth names. So I guess my problem with the two-first-name-trend is that, often, celebrities choose to have two first names. I don't know; this just seems odd to me.

Let's take Shannon Elizabeth, for example; her name is actually Shannon Elizabeth Fadal. Why drop the Fadal? I suppose that Shannon Elizabeth sounds more elegant (a la Grace Kelly - who is, by the by, another two-first-namer) than Shannon Elizabeth Fadal. But a) Shannon Elizabeth's photo is probably not what I would find in the dictionary if I were to look up 'elegant' and b) there is just no way that anyone would ever believe that Elizabeth is her real, God-given last name.

Ok, Tom Brady's real name is, in fact, Thomas Edward Brady, Jr. so I guess I don't really have anything to say on this one. But he was an athlete first (and a celebrity second - once everyone noticed how good-looking he was), so he doesn't count. Also, I guess that Brady is one of those baby names that originated as a last name and somehow morphed into a 'trendy' first name (you can thank Miranda's - from Sex and the City - ginger baby for that one). I concede; I won't pick on the Patriots poor crippled quarterback.

Moving on: Katy Perry, birth name Katheryn Elizabeth Hudson. Frankly, I would have stuck with Hudson. The name Perry conjures up images of creepy, pedophilic, bald men, while Hudson makes me think of rambling rivers (or... jeans). Jeans and rivers beat creepster baldies any day of the week. She shouldn't have messed with a good thing; I can't even tell you what I would give to have a normal and (if I do say so myself, a rather pleasant) last name. I think I've made my preference (and point) clear.

Ok, ok, Lily (Rose Beatrice) Allen uses her real name. Like Grace Kelly (this is the ONLY comparison between the two I can and ever will make, don't you worry), she just happens to have tow first names by birth, NOT choice. When used as a first name, I'm pretty sure Allen is spelled Alan. Yeah, this wasn't a great example, but it's still annoying.

Tisk, tisk, Kevin James; I have just discovered that your real last name is Knipfing. Kevin Knipfing. Yes, I can see why you chose to go with a stage name; the alliteration is a bit intimidating, but James? Come on! Why not something more interesting? Why not something that didn't automatically propel you head-first into the two-first-name club? Kevin is just so standard on it's own, I don't see the logic in opting to go with James as a fictional surname. If he wanted to keep the Kevin, I would have suggested going for something like Jamieson in order to reverse the roles of each individual name and balance out the full name as a whole. Or if KJ was dead-set on going with James as a surname, he should have changed his first name to Kennedy or Kissinger or Kavanaugh. I would definitely date a dude named Kennedy James or Kevin Jamieson... Kevin James, not so much.
Amanda Peet's real name actually is Amanda Peet, but just a heads-up, if it had been spelled Amanda Pete, we would have had major problems.

Same goes for Tina Fey. Although her proper name is Elizabeth Stamatina Fey, I guess I can't fault her since Fay as a first name is spelled 'Fay' not 'Fey' even though I should have some beef with her as she totally dropped the name Elizabeth, which is so obviously a national tragedy and straight-up diss to all of the card-carrying Elizabeths of the world.

Chris Martin is Christopher John Martin, but he named his babies Apple and Moses so the man gets no sympathy from me.
Tracy Morgan, Tracy Morgan, Tracy Morgan. While your name is, in fact, actually Tracy Morgan, your parents failed to realize that not only did they give you two first names, but they also gave you two female first names. Clearly this permanent embarrassment has not prevented you from building a full-fledged television career, but I thought I'd point out the awful joke that's been played upon you.

My last few examples were a bit weak, I won't deny it, but I think we can all appreciate what I'm going for here. This is an open letter to all of the parents of the world: Please! If your last name happens to also be a first name, get a little creative with the baby's first name. And no, I'm not talking about naming your kid Pilot Inspecktor or Brooklyn or Princess, just use a little imagination to make sure your kid doesn't end up with two first names. It's lame.
And celebrities, consider this your open letter (I'll keep it brief): When choosing a stage name, think. Be smart. Really try to use those few brain cells that still remain.

I HATE! People Who Lie About Where They're From

During my first year of college, I had an acquaintance who told everyone that he was from Chicago. Chicago, if I remember correctly, is located in the state of Illinois. Later, it was revealed that he was not, in fact, from Chicago, but from a little town in the Hoosier State, good old INDIANA. 

I'm from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. My mailing address is Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. If you look on a map, my house resides well within the Philadelphia city lines.

Given the little tidbits that I've just provided, let's play a game. How many times do you think I've had the conversation below?

Me (usually after an introduction): "I'm from Philly." (Or if I'm trying to be gangsta: "I'm from the Illadelph", "I'm from the 215", or "I'm from the home of World Series Champions the Philadelphia Phillies".)

Fake Philadelphian: "You're from Philadelphia?!?! Me too!"

Me: "Oh, that's awesome. What part of Philly are you from?"

Fake Philadelphian: "Oh actually, I'm from Mt. Laurel, New Jersey." (Or "Camden, New Jersey" or "Bucks County, Pennsylvania".)

Me: Soooo, you're not actually from Philadelphia...

Fake Philadelphian: "No, but I live close."

If your guess is a million, you're right!

So let's clarify something here. Close does not equal within. If you're from Radnor, Pennsylvania, you are NOT from Philadelphia. Look at a map; it's plain as day. Simple. Fact.

Why not just say, "I'm from Glassboro, New Jersey. It's a suburb of Philadelphia."? That way, you're not a) lieing and b) potentially angering any actual Philadelphia-native that is within earshot.

Additionally, have a little pride in your native hometown! If you're from Podunktown, Indiana just say you're from Podunktown, Indiana. There's no shame in it!!! Why try to pass yourself off for something you're not, especially when you're trying to pass yourself off to be from a state that you don't even live in! I can kind of understand saying you live in Chicago, if, for example, you live in Evanston, Illinois (even though I FIRMLY believe that you should articulate those specifics), but there is absolutely NO EXCUSE to claim you're from a city that's not even IN THE SAME STATE as the city that you're actually from. You're misrepresenting and that isn't cool!

I HATE! When Older Women Dress Like Teenagers

This post goes in conjunction with my post about adults wearing clothing adorned with cartoon characters.

We've already established the fact that at a certain age, you inevitably must retire some components of your quickly fleeting youth i.e. belly shirts, low-cut jeans, any article of clothing with a cartoon character emblazoned on it, mini backpacks, platform shoes, cowboy hats, overly-puffy down jackets, anything with fringe on it, etc.
And you'd think this would kind of be common knowledge to the older-set, but you'd really be surprised how many adults think they can get away with acting and dressing like their teenage counterparts. The biggest offenders among this group are older women - specifically the 40 - 65 year-old demographic (and I know that 40 isn't really that old, but let's be honest here, when you're 40, you're no spring chicken).

Case in point: there is a show on a very popular cable network that centers around the work of a high-rolling female matchmaker. She is not completely unfortunate-looking by any means, but I would estimate her age to be somewhere between 40 and 45, and the woman constantly, and I mean constantly, dresses like she's 20 and aging backwards Benjamin Button-style. Short skirts. Tighter-than-is-allowed-by-law-pants. Mini-dresses. Sky-high heels. You get the picture. And like I said, this woman isn't grotesque, but truth be told, she doesn't have the body of the 20-year-old beach volleyball player she is trying to dress like.

And I'm all for women being proud of their bodies etc. etc. , but I just think that women of a certain age should ease gracefully into decorum. You can get away with dressing like a harlot when you're 16, 18, and 23, but at 40 years old, you just look plum-silly trying to rock a leather mini and knee-high boots. I'm even finding that at 23-years-old, I can't get away with wearing what I used to. Let me tell you, my high-school body is NOWHERE to be found and the same goes for the (barely-school-appropriate) corset tops and hip-hugger jeans that were (embarrassingly) once my staple.

Bottom line is this: when you're 40 or 47 or 53 or 61, you really just look ridiculous when you try to pull off clothes made for the Limited-Too clientele. Your teenage years were meant for dressing ridiculously and getting it out of your system. Your high-school style is not meant to transcend into your 40s. And if perhaps I haven't yet hit this point home, please take into account the women on the fabulous show Rock of Love (see photo above) or many of the female guests on Maury. These women, while clearly past their physical primes, are still intent upon resurrecting the clothing of their oh-so-trashy-youth. And while these examples are extreme, I think it makes clear my point.

A little modesty ladies... a little modesty.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

I HATE! When Someone Wrongs You, But Acts Like it was the Other Way Around

You know what really sucks? And before I tell you what it is, let me just say that this is something that is new to me - I've never experienced this before, but I've come to the conclusion that I hate it.

Has someone ever made an about-face in attitude toward you, seemingly out of the blue and without cause or justification? Well, I have and I'm not pleased about it. Let me explain.

Someone that I was once very close with and with whom I have recently parted ways - we don't talk anymore, we're not friendly, no contact at all - which is not necessarily the way I wanted it, but for the sake of making a clean start, I guess it was best. Anyway, I was under the impression that even though we weren't going to communicate on a regular basis, we didn't hate each other - that there was no ill will, especially because if there should have been any ill will generated from this break, it should have come from me. But no, I wasn't feeling any animosity or anger or hatred for this person; I was just trying to adjust to the abrupt change of the absense of this person in my life. Just plugging along, you know. Doing the best that I could. A few times since, this person and I have communicated perfectly amicably and seen each other on one occasion to tie up some loose ends - still with no animosity, no anger.

About a month ago, I found myself in a precarious situation - I was locked out of my apartment at an ungodly hour and couldn't reach either of my roommates. I called everyone I knew to try to find an alternate place to stay for the night, but no one was answering because of the late hour. In desperation (and truly, truly I was reluctant to), I called this person. This person was my last resort and it was beginning to look like I would have to sleep on the street. I called - no answer, which wasn't unexpected, as no one I had called earlier had answered either. Thankfully, the situation worked itself out and I didn't end up sleeping on the sidewalk in front of my apartment building in a cardboard box.

The next day, I alerted this person to my situation the previous evening just so he / she wouldn't think that I was calling at 4 AM with some sort of ulterior motive. In response, I got a response I was not expecting - one which seemed to indicate that this person had ignored my call even though he / she suspected that something might be wrong. More increasingly angry texts followed (even though I tried not to get worked up; you can't hush the Irish temper), but basically I was highly insulted. I was only calling for a favor and nothing more, but I was greeted with what seemed like pure disdain.

I just don't understand what I did to deserve this type of treatment. That was all I could think for the next couple of days. This person acted as if I was the 'bad guy' and that I had done something to wrong him / her, when in fact, as I said earlier, that the blame for the end would certainly have NOT fallen on my shoulders. I just hate the fact that this person has turned things around on me, without rhyme or reason. I did nothing wrong - all I was asking for was a simple favor - one that I was requested our of desperation and something which I would have been glad to do if the roles had been reversed.

But sadly, random and unfounded animosity seems to have reared its ugly head.

I HATE! People Who Can't Push Revolving Doors

Is there some sort of weakling epidemic spreading across the country?

No? Well, I swear to you that every time I try to go into or out of the revolving doors of an office building (or in the subway), the person in front me can't manage to push the door with any force and I, and everyone else behind me end up moving through at the speed of (and not to offend, but I'll quote one of my fave movies here) "a Special Olympics hurtler".

Seriously! I am always caught behind the weakling (petite woman, wrinkly old man, laxidasical tween, or hippie stoner) who can't seem to move the revolving door with any force. I just don't understand it - a revolving door is not that heavy. In fact, these doors were made with the specific purpose of easily allowing a constant stream of people to enter and exit a building at any given time. The doors are made (and I'll capitialize for effect this time) SPECIFICALLY to be easily accessible by ALL - big, small, fat, thin, weak, strong, young, old, etc. (For the love of God, people use the term 'revolving door' as a metaphor - it's supposed to that GD effective.) I don't see any reason why someone would not be able to push a revolving door with ease.

And do you know what I do when the person in front me decides to move through the revolving door like he or she is talking a leisurely Sunday stroll in the park? I bet you can guess. That's right; I give the door an excessivley strong push, as if to say to the person in front of me: 'Move your ass!' I'm actually waiting for someone to trip or fall one of these days. It's priceless to see the look of surprise on the person's face; it's as if they've been jolted out of some hypnotic state.

Wake up, people! Push! Push! Push! Pregnant women do it all the time except it's more painful and less pretty.

I HATE! No Free Refills on Fountain Soda

I'm not what I would call cheap - most people who know me are aware of the fact that I shop often and impulsively. I am not exactly what one would call conservative. But there are certain things that I absolutely cannot stand paying for and one of those is multiple glasses of fountain soda.

We all know that if a restaurant has a soda fountain, it costs the place something along the lines of five cents per each glass of soda. So when a restaurant does not give you free refills on an initial glass of soda that they have the audacity to charge you $3 for, it makes me furious. At $3.00 a glass, the restaurant is already making a huge profit, even if you have more than one glass of soda with your meal. There is nothing like getting a check for meal with which you had three glasses of Diet Coke to find that the establish has charged you $3.00 for each one. I'm not going to lie, it kind of makes me want to stand up and flip the table over with rage.

What's worse is that half the time, the waiter or waitress will just refill your glass without really letting you on to the fact that you'll be paying our of your ass for each and every one of the sodas they bring you.

What are these restaurants afraid of? Do they really think that someone is going to drink so much fountain soda that he or she will put the restauarnt out of business? It's not humanely possible to drink that much fountain soda in one sitting; there is almost no way that a restaurant could lose money by giving away free refills on fountain soda. Just to further prove my point, let's do the math:

1 glass fountain soda (actual cost) = 5 cents
1 glass fountain soda (menu price) = $3
$3.00 / .05 = 60 (glasses)

That means, for a restaurant to actually lose money on a glass of fountain soda, a person would have to drink more than 60 glasses of soda during his / her meal. N-O-T P-O-S-S-I-B-L-E.
And let's say, I drink four glasses of fountain soda with my meal and the restuarant only charges me for the first one:

4 x .05 = .20 (20 cents actual cost to the restaurant for 4 beverages)
$3.00 - .20 = $2.80 (profit)

The restaurant still makes $2.80 in profit - pure profit - even without charging me each individual drink!

In conclusion, I see absolutely no reason why free refills aren't mandatory at every restaurant across the country. If this were 1910 and a glass of soda still actually cost 5 cents, I might be willing to pay for each one, but it's not, and at today's inflated prices, I think free refills are completely reasonable - it's all in the math.