The Assman Grieveth, Part I of III: The Personal and Absurdly Petty

I've got a lot of problems with you people.

And I don't just mean that figuratively. I'm saying... I've got a lot of damned problems with you people. I sat down to write out my Grievances for the season and realized that I couldn't get it all out in one shot. You people are just way too fucked up to be grieved about in a cozy five-minute read. Sorry. You just are. If this eats up more of your holiday than you feel comfortable with, find your local jackass, sit him down and tell him to find a few ways to be a less fucked up person next year. Everybody benefits.

Starting with the shiftless bums that I work with here at the AofG and have to pretend that I like when we get together at the company picnic every year...

Vandelay, you son of a bitch. If I have to read one more post using Pennsylvania slang words older than your favorite original pink Rick Springfield t-shirt, I'm going to lose it. Listening to you talk is like listening to a guy that just woke up from a 17 year coma raving about playing Altered Beast on Genesis. While you were sleeping, we all agreed to move on.

Also, I don't get YouTube at work, so cut the shit out.

Chiles, between all the boxing and the hockey stories, you need to be hanging out with Vandelay in the "We Preferred The Way Things Were in 1986" Lounge. Considering your affinity for long dead sports, I keep expecting to see a post from you talking about your new Chariot Racing rec league or how you twisted an ankle playing tetherball. Maybe you're not from the jumping tribe, but maybe you could jump on the 2007 train at least? We're all watching football in the entertainment car. Thanks.

Klompus, I haven't seen anyone do this much Samoan bashing since Wrestlemania IX. I don't know if you have a beef with coconut oil exports or towns that don't seem to have any letters in their names besides T, U, A, O and E, but if you've got a problem with the island that gave us... well, nothing really, then you really need to grow up. Also? You can stop defending Bill Belichick any day now. Making excuses for his antics is about as reasonable as saying "Come on, guys, George Bush can turn this whole thing around. Let's give him a few more months."

Cosmo, I keep seeing your name on the company roster, but I'll be damned if you're ever in the quarterly production meetings. Is this one of these arrangements where you're a professional drug dealer, but your enabling dad keeps you on the company payroll in a no-show position to avoid questions from the IRS? And if so, my office is down the hall on the right. A handful of Vicodin goes a long way. Thanks, brother.

Crazy Joe DaVola.... er... I got nothing. Be more controversial, bastard.

And its not just those bums. The list continues as follows:

I've got a problem with people who don't punctuate their sentences in emails. If you send me an email that says, "I watched the game yesterday and do you see the way he runs the television might as well have been on fire with all the smoke that was the best I don't know what else to say," you can fully expect a response that starts with "Go fuck yourself," ends with "...go fuck yourself," and has more cuss words than commas in the twain. You can also expect me to stop opening your emails. This begins today. If you sent me an email and never got a return receipt, you can go fuck yourself. Head over to Dildo.com, get yourself something in a 10-inch studded black and immediately get to work fucking yourself. Thanks.

I want the people who decide on movie ratings to eat my balls. Both balls. Get some marinara sauce... maybe some cooked onion to highlight the flavor... I dunno, paprika... mix it all up and serve with whatever goes best with ball sack. White wine? Call one of your culinary food nerd friends, figure it out and come to dinner.

I don't get out to see movies much, but I did take time to go see Die Hard Part Whatever Came Out This Year because I like seeing Bruce Willis almost die a lot, and, as a PC user, I have no problem seeing people take shots at the kid from the Mac commercials. At the end, where Bruce is supposed to deliver the nice trademark yippee-ki-yay motherfucker line that I waited ten years for, the "fucker" was edited out and replaced with the sound of a gunshot. Why? To keep up a nice PG-13 rating. Because when it comes to determining whether or not a movie is appropriate for a 13 year old, hearing the word "motherfucker" comes slightly higher on the no-no list than hearing a guy get shot in the face. By that same logic, I suppose the folks at the MPAA would rather see me drive to their houses and beat the shit out of their families, friends and pets than than have me simply write a grievance where I refer to them as the brainless cunts that they are. Calling them cunts, after all, is unacceptable.

Here's an open letter to every female teacher out there that feels the need to secretly fuck their male students. And I know there are a lot of you. CNN can't have posted all of your teen-dick sucking mugshots on TV already. Some of you are getting double-teamed by the two kids in your class that can't figure out fractions right now and getting away with it because, while they may be too dumb to understand why three-fourths is more than five-eigths, they're not dumb enough to complain to the cops about getting to tap some fine 22-year-old teacher booty and get easy grades in the process. Can I make a plea to you?

You don't have to do this. I know sometimes you're in class and you're all standing in front of the blackboard talking about gerunds or the Spanish-American War or whatever - who's listening anyway? - and all you can think about is how you can't wait till 7th period is over so you can go lay down in the back of your 1994 Plymouth Sundance and take it in the dogstyle from a kid who claims to understand you even though he doesn't even understand his own pubic hair growth pattern. But what you don't know is... there are grown assed men that can do it for you instead. I can name seven guys right now that would quit their jobs and break their leases just to tap it once. If you want someone to stop by your house after work and give you the bone while pretending to be impressed with you, there are ways to do it legally. All you have to do is walk up to the adult male of your choice and tell him what time to be there. It's that simple. (Even Brad Pitt would fuck you if he had 20 minutes to kill. Trust me. This is how men work.) That way, you get all the thrills of a sex-filled, misguided relationship that can't reasonably go anywhere without all the permanent scorn of a sex crime conviction. Teenagers aren't the only ones that can appreciate some illicit freak-dog action, you know? Take advantage of it. I don't want to read about you in the news anymore - I want to read about you on a bathroom stall.

Here's an open letter to every male teacher out there that secretly feels the need to fuck their female students. It's okay. We understand. I know what its like. It's not easy having a room full of teenaged girls paying attention to you for the very first time in your life, and I know you want to finally take advantage of it. But, guess what, Slim? Shit ain't never gonna happen. Despite whatever you may have learned from Reese Witherspoon / Matthew Broderick movies, no sexy teen girl wants to fuck a guy that looks like Paul Giamatti and talks passionately about the differences between a genus and a species. What the hell is wrong with you? Stop being a damned chester, and walk down the hall to see what the obviously extremely horny female teachers are doing tonight. Something tells me your chances with them are significantly better.

(Warning: I'm feeling a little rambly and disjointed from all the pent up anger. If this starts getting incoherent and hard to read, just slow down, get a glass of water, re-read the paragraph from the beginning and get over yourself. I don't have time to hold your hand through this like you're a 7-year-old crossing a street. Sometimes life is hard and reading Grievances can be a bitch. Deal with it or fuck off till it's someone else's turn.)

The other day I was at Blockbuster Video behind this lady. Check this shit out, alright? This actually happened, and it made me run to my car to find a piece of paper on which I could scribble "Grievance - lady - blockbuster - wtf!" then stick it inside my pocket with plans to remediate it later. Later is right now.

Lady: "I'd like to rent these movies."
Clerk: "Sure. Do you have your Blockbuster card or your driver's license?"
Lady: "Do I need those? They're in my car. Hold on."

I'm not going to tell you anything else about that story. You know exactly how the rest of that transaction went. I don't think any more input from me is necessary. Plus? The longer I stay on this topic, the more I want to get in my car and scour the streets looking for her. Not good. Changing subjects.

Go to hell, guy who revs his engine next to me at stop lights. Why must you pull up next to me with your loud-assed, no-mufflin' car, then beef on the pedals for a bit while you sneer at me like you're Coach K after a bad call from the refs? I'm driving with my windows open because I enjoy the weather, ass, not because I want to smell your burning oil car funk or go deaf listening to your engine's digestive system working out its issues with regular unleaded. If you just want to show off your car's engine, then you're talking to the wrong guy. You may think I've just cut a hole in the floor of my Mazda so I can Barney Rubble it around Bedrock, but my vehicle actually has an engine too. It was included in the sticker price. So, go to hell. Seriously, just turn on your blinker, make a left up here at this next intersection, go about three lights (maybe four - I can't remember), merge onto the highway going southbound and drive yourself straight to hell. You're probably going to want to get on the road before 3 to avoid traffic, and, remember, it's a left exit.

Stop telling me I can't compare apples to oranges, people. Stop it now. First of all, they're both round fruits that lend themselves well to juices you might find in a seven-year-old's lunchbox. This sets the table for a very easy comparison. Second, even if its just an expression, its an asinine expression. On the planet earth, there are approximately 800 jillion things that have less in common than apples and oranges. I ran the numbers. It's time this came to an end. If you want to retain the fruit-to-fruit essence of the expression, then I'll recommend saying you can't compare pears to bananas. One is a semi-crunchy fruit that, for some reason, is under-represented in the juice aisle of every grocery store in America, and the other is a fruit that makes you extremely uncomfortable every time you see how much your daughter enjoys eating it. And, yes, this grievance was entirely too silly to have been included. Even George Carlin would have edited this out.

Hang on... this one is actually directed at me because I'm the asshole that's guilty of this and I can't stop myself. I'm that guy that... okay... you know when the Chinese food guy drops the menu leaflet off on your front door? I'm that guy that runs to the door, grabs the menu and immediately starts reading it to see what they've got. I need to be stopped. First of all, it's not like I'm going to open the menu and see egg nog. Chinese food menus can be made from a template where you just insert your own address, phone number and little vague map thingy, then select a name using two words from a pre-defined list of ten. (Happy, Garden, Panda, Dragon, Lucky, Golden, House, Joy, Szechuan and Little). The food contents are always the same in every city all over the country. There are no surprises. Second, when I get Chinese food, I order the same goddamned meal I've been getting since 1994 every single time. Do I even need to open the menu and pretend that maybe this will be the day that I decide to try the Moo Goo Gai Pan? Why am I even skimming the Chow Mein? It's the General Tso's combo platter or it's fuck all! Did I need to run from my couch to the door to read this? Come on!

Back in the day, putting a dollar in a Coke machine meant you had to have a brand new crisp dollar or you'd be sitting there for 30 minutes trying to fake-iron the wrinkles out by rubbing it against your jeans before the machine would accept it. Apparently, the Coca-Cola company was deadly paranoid about getting to the bank to make a drop and finding out that they were trying to deposit a bunch of post-it notes colored with green crayon, so they went overboard with the machines' sensitivity. Since this was happening in the 1980's, which is the same decade that we dedicated our technology resources to developing top-loading VCRs and guitars with four necks instead of anything really useful, its not surprising that we'd have to suffer through such inconveniences. So why is it that, in an era where I can put a hand-written check into an ATM and have it read the amount back to me in seven languages, I still have to put up with can't-read-a-damned-dollar vending machines? Come on, science! Get in my corner! I can tell its a dollar and I don't have infrared glasses on. When the guy at 7-11 hands me a wad of cash back after I buy my Friday night Mad Dog 20/20, I don't hand it back to him 30 or 40 times until he can unfold it perfectly and convince me that its real. How hard is it to develop a machine with common sense? And, no, I don't care if that's how Cyberdyne got started. I demand convenience. Let Linda Hamilton and Keanu Reeves sort out the consequences.

In fact, can I make a request of science in general? I appreciate you, science. You've done some shit for me and I'm not going to sit here and act like you don't get in the laboratory and take care of some business on the regular. Again... that thing with the ATM's reading numbers on checks? That's just solid. But can I talk to you for a second? You know how you've got all these people running around saying evolution isn't real because the Bible doesn't say "King Kong begat Koko who begat Curious George who begat Adam"? And how they make museums where they've got people riding dinosaurs in chariot races across rainbows to get a bowl of Lucky Charms? Would it kill you to come up with some evidence that can be served up on a plate to these people with a small side order of "please shut the fuck up"? Just a cave drawing of a man cutting off his tail or maybe a photograph of an animal evolving perfectly preserved in amber. Give me something, science. Years are coming off my life.

I need to talk about people who flash their brights at me while I'm driving. I appreciate the attempt at communication, but let's be honest with ourselves here. It's a little vague. I don't know if you're telling me "hey, there's a cop up here - slow down," or "move over - I want to pass you," or "your brake light is out," or "are you in a gang? I'm in a gang and I'm thinking of killing you. Are you in a gang?" or "your headlights are too bright - how does it feel when I do it to you, motherfucker?" or "my bad - I was masturbating and my knee hit the signal bar accidentally," or "seriously, what gang are you with? Flash me back correctly or I'm going to fill your car with more bullets than a New York City cop after a black guy's bachelor party," or "look, it's late - my wife and kids are asleep and I'm hoping you'll pull over and let me give you head. I'm a prominent Republican political figure though, and tomorrow I'm voting on a measure that condemns people for doing this sort of thing, so you've got to keep it on the hush hush, okay? Are your balls furry? I like a furry ball on my chin." From now on, if you need to tell me something, call my cell phone. And if you like furry balls on your chin, send me a text instead. Let's be discreet about it.

I hate the college that I attended all those years ago. Every month or so, they send me a letter that says, "Hey - remember the good times we had together? Remember the salad days of university life? How about you send us some money so more people can experience the same joy?" Er... not cool. Let's get this straight, unnamed southern college that rhymes with "The University of Skirginia," I applied to attend there, jumped through your admission hoops, paid tuition for four years and didn't murder anyone on the premises. In exchange, you provided me with an opportunity to educate myself, an 8' x 12' room in which I could watch basketball and masturbate and the company of several women that were willing to be defiled for my pleasure. End of transaction, college. You got yours and I got mine. Don't send me letters later expecting me to think I owe you anything. After I come home from Disneyworld, do I get letters that say, "Remember Space Mountain? How about sending us more cash for no reason?" No, because that would be absurd. Get over yourselves and lose my address. Thanks much.

I'm always bothered by people who complain about the free coffee at work. Do you understand what you're doing here? Your employer is saying to you - "here, get high at work - I encourage it and its free," and you're saying no because you'd rather get it at Starbucks? That's like going to a doctor for pain, having him offer you a free 30 day supply of Vicodin and you saying, "No thanks. I prefer Oxycontin and exorbitent co-pays." I don't understand you. Get a mug, walk in the break room and enjoy the free cup of get-high, you damned ingrate. You deserve to have a circular saw shoved up your ass. (But not to have it turned on. That would be excessive.)

Folks who make cars? We need to have some words. When I'm driving my 2-year-old daughter around and she's playing the "what color is that car" game, I don't want to get tripped up and sound like an idiot anymore. She already thinks I'm stupid because I can't tell her what sound a kangaroo makes - give me a chance to make up some ground here. Make your cars as funny looking as you want, but keep the colors basic, please. I'm tired of hearing her say, "White car. Blue car. Red car. Um... I... um... what color is that car, daddy?" and having to respond, "Oh, it's like... like a sand... sandy green-like... um... like if you had some sand and you put it in a cup of green Kool-Aid, then pulled it out and... um... okay, you remember that dress your grandmother had on last Tuesday... imagine that if I spilled some... okay... like... just call it a greenish yellow brown-like beige thing... mauve? What color is mauve? Is that a kind of purple? I... um... hey, I'm gonna put in this Wiggle's CD, goddammit. Let's just sing about some mashed bananas and call it a day. Game over."

I'm tired of everyone who decides to get married at some exotic resort 5000 miles away, then gets all indignant when I tell them that, despite my fancy clothes from Target, I am unable to pay for a jet-setting weekend on the French Riviera where everyone dresses up like characters from Big Fish and speaks to each other in that fake British accent that people use when they're trying to imitate people from the olde days and sound important. Despite whatever half-steppin' jive your wedding planner is handing out about how your wedding is "all about you," other people have lives, needs and a desire to spend their savings on, say, paying off car loans, rather than leftover costumes from Tom Petty's "Don't Come Around Here No More" video. Stop doing this. Get married where I live, where you live or all by your damned selves.

I've got a beef with the guy that comes to the basketball court wearing more clothes and accessories than the average member of the British Parliament in 1747. You know who I'm talking about. You might show up wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt ready to go. This guy has on shorts that come down to his ankles, socks that go up to his thighs, seven wristbands, a headband, black tights under a t-shirt under a sleeveless t-shirt under a jersey, kneepads, a bandana and gloves. It's 84 degrees outside, Ethel Mae - would you rather be at home reading a tawdry novella and sipping on a salted egg cream? It's fucking basketball, not a 10-man hike across the frozen terrains of Ragnarok. Go home, grow a pair and take off about 17 pounds of needless fabric. Come back to the court when you're not wearing enough layers to stop a bullet.

Professional sports analysts that used to be professional coaches need to be stopped. For years, I'll see the guy walking up and down a sideline, making calls, drawing up plays, making the big adjustments that drive the team toward victory, and I'll be impressed. I'll say to myself, "You know what? 3rd and 4? I might run a draw play here, but I'm just a retard who watches football on weekends. Let's trust the guy that researches the game 100 hours a week here." I'll think, "That point guard made a silly play. Maybe he ought to be listening to the coach instead of coming up with these boneheaded decisions on his own. Come on."

Then, at halftime, or whatever, I'll see the former coach turned analyst, and he'll make some insight like, "Football players just gotta play football, and if you're in there thinking about yards and draws and all that garbage, you're not thinking about football." Or he'll say, "When a point guard is making a play, it's important that he takes time to pass the ball to his teammate and to not pass the ball where someone on the other team can get it." Then I realize... during the game, while I'm giving coaches all this mental accolade... is this the drivel they're leading the team with? Are the pro coaches that I hold in such high regard just a handful of semi-retarded bum-asses that, were they sitting next to me on the couch, I'd consider asking them to make a beer run, just so I don't have to hear their Terry-Schaivo-level insights while I'm trying to enjoy the game? I'd have felt much better if you had just stayed coaches, coaches! I didn't need to know that your knowledge of your sport leads you to such mindfucks as, "Pittsburgh should beat this team today because the 4th string defensive back has longer arms than the 3rd stringers. When you've got a guy behind you on the chart that can get a better deal on the carousel, you're going to make that push to the edge. And the way Green Bay's offensive line has had their arm strength tested by the receiving corps, they're going to want to think about using a warmer cozy." I need to feel like you're good at this. I need you to be a genius. I need to be watching my teams fail and not think, "Did he just throw that interception because he's getting fed directions from a guy that probably thinks pro wrestling is real and gets into arguments at bars about Gorilla Monsoon?" I need to see my team draft an obvious loser and think they know something about the guy that I don't, not "I'll bet they just woke up this morning, read about him online and drafted him based on a review his own cousin wrote about him on his blog." Being a sports fan is hard enough without knowing the people you place your faith in are being managed by people who probably think paying extra for the extended service plan is always a good investment.

I'm getting ahead of myself. More on this in Part II...

Comments

[Art Vandelay]

Oh my.

[alex]

Solid, solid stuff.

And I regret nothing about having a wedding thousands of miles away. It ruled.

[Schmoopie]

You're cute when you're aggrieved.

Also? The Rock is part Samoan. He was charming in that kiddie movie, whatever it was called—the one with the little girl who announces that he's her dad—and occasionally had his shirt off. Highly recommended. Am a big fan of part-Samoan former-wrestler movie stars.

[jackie]

First thing first, Brilliance. That is what Assman brings to this blog. Sheer and utter Brilliance. Mouth agape.

The apples/oranges and female teacher bits are some of the best stuff I've ever read. Seriously.

As for hockey purportedly being dead, yeah it never shoulda went South of the Mason-Dixon, but still Man, pull your head out of your Ass.

[Assman]

As for hockey purportedly being dead, yeah it never shoulda went South of the Mason-Dixon, but still Man, pull your head out of you Ass.

Hey, I'm sure I can find an entertaining chariot race on Youtube too.....

[jackie]

"Hey, I'm sure I can find an entertaining chariot race on Youtube too..."

Bet.

[Cozmo]

You know, I am too busy basking in the brilliance of your post to really deal with it, but Guilty as charged, Assman. Guilty as charged.

Between my weight-gain and my no-show job, I'm one train fetish short of being Bobby Bacala.

[MightyLambchop]

I got married in my backyard and you still wouldn't have been able to come since I live in Oregon.(And that whole falling out of touch thing too.)Just sayin' is all.

[Itchy]

people who complain about the free coffee at work

People who complain about the free anything at work should be dickslapped. They didn't have to bring donuts to your fat ass...stop bitching because they don't have the extra chocolate filling or sprinkles on 'em. I saw you eat 3 already, you cannot legitimately bitch while digesting the first 2 donuts out of your donut menage.

[Assman]

(And that whole falling out of touch thing too.)

I'm very good with email. Very good!

I saw you eat 3 already, you cannot legitimately bitch while digesting the first 2 donuts out of your donut menage.

I just gained 7 pounds after reading the phrase "donut menage."

[Itchy]

When I returned home from work this evening there was a menu on my door. From the Dragon Garden. And yes, I peeked at it. It and the map. And then I sat down to ponder a garden that would grow dragons. Where can I get seeds? And how much acreage would I need? Will Miracle Grow help out with dragon gardening? And how quick could they get the beef broccoli from their location from the star on the little map to my current location?

[Steve]

OK, people around here are wondering why I'm laughing out loud at the computer.

Again.

[Art Vandelay]

Am I the only asshole who has no idea how the transaction ended at Blockbuster?

[Art Vandelay]

Am I the only asshole who has no idea how the transaction ended at Blockbuster?

[Assman]

Am I the only asshole who has no idea how the transaction ended at Blockbuster?

People Behind Her in Line: "Are you fucking kidding me? We've got to wait here because you didn't think you needed your card?"

Lady: "I didn't know I needed a card. How was I supposed to know?"

People Behind Her in Line: *cuss words*

[Lisa Bored Star Kaleidescope]

Holy hell, Assman.

My head was far too full of cold-related congestion to make room for all of THAT. I'm going to have to come back and cruise through again. I did, however, pick up on a 7-year-old kid trend. I happen to have a couple of those, and I must say, 7 year olds are far less in need of having their hands held when crossing a street than 2 or 3 or 4 year olds. Mine are practically ready to move out. Which reminds me of the weird guy I met in the bar the other (god help me, I spend way too much time in bars lately...) who told me about his daughter who could drive a car at 5 and got her first paycheck at 8. Double-you Tee the fuck Eff??? How does one respond to such a thing? Cuz. It isn't true, but when a dude has no teeth and those craaaazy eyes, you just feel a compulsion from deep inside your primal brain to Act Natural. As you can tell, I did make it out of there alive, but christ.

Uh.
Happy New Year, Assman.