I HATE! Utter Incompetence

Below is recent a post from Perezhilton.com:

Sarah Palin's Father Not Pleased With Levi
Filed under: Baby Blabber > Sarah Palin

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."

Why?

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???????

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.