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Check Out My Bluetooth Earpiece
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9/25/2006
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In keeping with the spirit of the "Check Out my Striped Shirt" email that went around last year, I figured it was high time someone wrote about another real American Asshole- Bluetooth Earpiece Guy.
Check me out with my futuristic mobile phone accessory that I purchased for $49.95. I'm so important that I have to wear it even when I'm not driving or otherwise using my hands. When you are making deals, sometimes you have to gesture, and it is those moments in which the earpiece is the difference between just sounding like an inconsiderate cocknob and fully committing to the role with every fiber of your being.
When you average turds get a call, you have to dig in your pockets and hold your phone to your ear, but not me. I just tap my earpiece and start talking. I look like a crazy person because the absence of anyone with whom to make eye contact just leaves me staring at various things around the room, talking loudly in sentence fragments. If you are stupid enough to think I am screaming at you about the cable guy not showing up on time, I will give you a dirty look for eavesdropping on my 120 decibel conversation. You don't understand the gravity of the things I have to deal with every day and you have to earn the right to identify with me.
Nothing is more important to me than the possibility of a phone call. Some of us can't even stop being popular long enough to eat. My earpiece blinks and wiggles with every bite of my Montana Fajita platter at Applebee's when I have time to take my family somewhere nice. My son might be telling me that he made the varsity football team and I could get a call and give him the international signal for "you aren't that important" by holding one finger in the air while pointing to my totally badass plasti-chrome earpiece with the other and averting my eyes.
I will probably excuse myself from the table to talk by the salad bar where it is quieter. I don't worry, because everyone around me forgives me when they see how powerful I am, issuing orders to a subordinate who may or may not exist or laughing loudly with one of my many hilarious friends.
Go ahead; just try to get past me to get some dessert. The soft-serve ice cream area just became my situation room, bitch. When I'm on the 'tooth, the world is at once irrelevant and revolving around me. I am oblivious to the fact that I am blocking the entrance to the restroom because your tiny bladder is not the issue here. I'll stand in the doorway of the elevator and not move when it opens because Bluetooth supersedes linear time, obscures the laws of physics, and tramples the testicles of etiquette. Maybe you'll understand that when I give you the stink eye for touching me. Do you have any idea who I am?
I get laid all the time and I talk about bangin' chicks. You know it. I'll talk to my boy Sticky from college about how that chick was all over me and I don't care who knows it, but I've always wanted to nail a Portuguese broad because I heard they know more tricks than a monkey on a hundred yards of grapevine. I'll tell him I tore that bitch's ass UP in a Janitor's closet at the Hyatt- good thing I never take the earpiece out or there would have been an unnecessary pause in the best pipin' she ever had when my mom called. Oh, are you offended? You seem to be forgetting that you don't exist when the 'tooth reigns supreme.
Yes, of course I use words like 'fuck' and 'cunt' in my frequent conversations with dignitaries and potentates. It's not my problem if you choose to take your small children to a public area where I might have to tell the Pope how to fix his "fucking bitchass shitcake whore of a fax machine" really loudly. Sometimes he pisses me off, man. You need to put the interests of the free world ahead of the well-being of your stupid kid. It's a goddamn Bluetooth jungle, champ. You can adapt or die.
Me and my Earpiece are a force to be reckoned with, and I reckon you ain't got the stones. You feel that breeze? There's an awesome-front moving in by the name of "me", and there's a high pressure system coming right behind it, so speed-on before you get peed-on, son.
Hell yes, I wear it on airplane flights. Nothing is hotter to the stewardess than the guy in 24C toothin' it up like a mad pimp. Maybe you aren't rad enough to use your phone while flying, but I have a special space phone and I might have tell someone in Milwaukee how to diffuse a dirty bomb or tell Secretary Greenspan how much to raise prime from 40,000 feet over Utah. People like me can't afford take the kind of chances you can.
The blinking blue light is Morse code for "one maxed-out hombre," and you just got learned, bitches.
 Dusty
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posted by Dusty at 1:54 PM |
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Mexi-meltdown
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9/20/2006
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When I arrived in Los Angeles last week, the first order of bidness was to get to the hotel. The first shuttle driver I asked said something that sounded vaguely like "blue van", so I found a blue van and stood while the driver talked with a Hispanic man who looked a little frustrated.
The man's wife and two kids were sitting in the van, and the back of the van was packed full of luggage. I mean full. Like Grapes of Wrath full. Because there were so many bags, the driver was trying to explain that there was an up-charge to take the shuttle, as no more passengers could fit in the van.
They went back and forth for a few minutes, and I gathered that the price had gone from $35 to $44 for a trip into town. Both of these prices were lower than the cost of a cab, so I didn't see many options for this guy.
"Why you charge me 9 more dollars?!" He angrily demanded.
"Sir, because...just a second, I have my supervisor on the line. Let me see what he says."
"It is only four people. My family. You have two more row seats! You put other people there and we go 35 dollar! Done!" *waving everybody aboard the van as if he is now running the show*
"See, we don't have room for the other peoples' bags..."
"They hold them! Now we go!" *motioning once again to the rest of us to climb aboard because we looked like we all wanted to hold our bags in our laps on a trip through Los Angeles in a crowded bus. At 4:45 on a Friday afternoon. With Comandante Furioso Yelling at the driver.*
"Well, we can't do that because it is not legal. My supervisor said we have to charge you the $44 fare."
I don't think that the supervisor was really on the phone, but the driver was about the most patient person I have ever seen. In a few minutes there were ten more people waiting with me, all exchanging confused looks and wondering when it would be our turn.
One of the most irritating things I can witness is someone spending time and making themselves and others stand around while they bicker over a few dollars. This is not because I am rich, as I assure you that I am not. It is because making your family suffer in a hot van while ten other people stand on the sidewalk holding their bags because you are being charged the price that is on the huge damn sticker on the side of the van- well, that whole situation just has to end for the good of humanity.
While the driver was on the phone, I handed the pissed off guy $10 and told him to go. In hindsight, it might have been less offensive to have just given the money to the driver and let the guy think he had won the argument, but I make mistakes like that all the time.
"Sir? Take this and go."
"What? I don't pay the money! That man is cheating!"
"Don't yell at me. Take the money and go. You are holding all of these people up, and it's not worth our time. Just go. Pay me back next time."
Then the driver turned back and asked if they were going to go. To my relief, the man took the bill and said "fine".
Then he grabbed another bag and a collapsible stroller that had been sitting behind the bench. Another sticker on the van said that additional bags were $3 each, and that was quickly pointed out to our friend Angry Gonzales, who promptly flipped right out. I seriously thought he was going to deck the driver.
He barked an order in Spanish to his family, who slowly got out of the van, and he opened the back doors and started piling his luggage onto one of those rolling baggage carts. As the pile got higher, the cart started rolling almost imperceptibly toward the curb. I was telling the driver where I needed to go and I caught the motion out of the corner of my eye and made a move to stop it, but it was too late. The front wheel of the cart went over the curb, spilling all of his bags into the street. This event could only be compared to the failure of the New Orleans levies in its unleashitude of havoc.
The gentleman's anger spun up to a point where it transcended reality, spanning both time and space. I had an image of Baby Jesus playing with the mobile of the three wise men that hung above his crib so many centuries ago, stopping suddenly, having a brief instant of complete comprehension, and beginning to cry. 20 years in the future I imagined myself charismatically addressing trillions from my nipple-encrusted castle on the moon from which I rule the universe- uncharacteristically pausing as a shiver runs up my spine-for the briefest moment causing my concubines to halt the fanning of the palm fronds, but then getting right back to the business of being awesome...
Dude was so unbelievably pissed that I was afraid to offer to help him pick up his bags. He was screaming in Spanish and went out in the street, almost being clipped by a cab, and just started hurling his bags toward the curb. He gave the collapsible stroller a fling, and we all watched in horror as it hit his eight year old daughter pretty squarely in the head. She was okay. No blood or anything, but she started crying, which made the man's wife start yelling at him, and holy shit, things were about as headed downhill as they could get. I was probably the only one who really believed that he was going to start disemboweling people with his mind, but I was convinced it was only a matter of time.
Nobody knew what to do other than watch in silence and maybe blog about it later. I briefly wondered what hilarity would ensue if I tried to ask for my $10 back. I was not presently trying to scoop my entrails back into my abdomen and didn't see any reason to change that, so I let him keep it. Maybe he'd get home however he got home and find a surprise ten spot in his pocket tonight and be happy. Maybe not.
An hour later I was the last to be dropped off at my hotel. The driver was quite understanding when I was $5 short on my shuttle fare. In fact, he appreciated my patience so much that he didn't charge me for the ride to the ATM.
Dusty
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posted by Dusty at 7:33 AM |
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If Animals Could Talk, They'd Tell you your Bumper Sticker Sucks
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9/02/2006
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I live in a city full of filthy hippies who wear their politics on the bumpers of their shitty, oil-burning cars. Today I saw this one-
"If animals could talk, we'd all be vegetarians."
Yup. And if Vaginas could talk, we'd all be gay.
Actually, animals can talk. They just have a very limited vocabulary.
I have to look more closely at that. If animals could talk and they were personable and friendly and intelligent, sure. Maybe I'd only eat the retarded ones or the ones who were young and delicious enough that they hadn't yet learned to talk. That's one scenario.
If animals were annoying pricks and wouldn't shut up about football scores or how much they could bench in highschool, I'd still eat them, but I'd probably kill them myself instead of letting Colonel Sanders have all the fun.
If they constantly went on and on about how meat is murder and so on, I'd probably kill them just to make them stop talking. Really, if I was standing next to the Jerky display at Target trying to make an informed snacking decision and some douchebag ostrich came up to me and went on a diatribe about cruelty and/or intestinal blockage, I'd slip a tube sock over his head like I saw on the Discovery Channel, walk his now calm ass out to my car, take him home, and light the barbecue.
I'm under the impression that the bumper sticker was implying that animals could beg for their lives, in which case we would probably all eat vegetarians with stupid bumper stickers instead.
Dusty
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posted by Dusty at 9:53 AM |
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