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Half-Marathon Chick: I’m not a big fan of the marathon, and the people who need to prove something to themselves and get that picture with the tin-foil poncho being put over them at the finish line, but whatever. What I really don’t like is the way the marathon shuts down the city. It’s even worse when it’s a half-marathon. Everyone reading this could complete a half-marathon. If your car broke down 13.1 miles from civilization, do you think you’d just impale yourself on the hood ornament? No, you’d just walk that half-marathon. A lot of people doing the half-marathon are walking it anyway. To them, I ask, would you brag to someone that you climbed half of Mount Everest, or that you were playing hoops and you went to the one-and-a-half point stripe and drained one, or that you grabbed half a boobie? If you have something to prove, lock yourself in your apartment and don’t take a shit for two days. That’s way more impressive.
So, Natalia, if you become one of those ladies with the “13.1” bumper sticker on your Subaru please drive it 13.1 miles away from me and never look back.
Drunk Woman Who Calls Herself a MILF or Cougar: The rise of the terms MILF and cougar has given drunken older broads carte blanche to continue being loud and a
Slow Crosswalker: I was in San Francisco, ru
Then I thought about it on a bigger scale. People in general don’t cross the street well anymore. It used to be a sprint, followed by a shoulder roll, then pop up to finish the sprint and stick the landing on the sidewalk. Because when we were kids, people had horrible old drum brakes, and were drunk, so the chances of you getting clipped by a Buick were pretty good, if you weren’t hustling. Nowadays, people aren’t frightened. They’re not scared.
Here’s my solution. I think that everyone between the ages of seven and ten should get clipped by a car just once. I’m not saying run over by a dump truck and put in a coma, just enough to give them the proper amount of fear for the rest of their life. Like the person who gets bitten by a dog at age three, and then is scared of them into adulthood. Parents: Just put your kid in the driveway sometime around second grade, back into them and, when they’re writhing in pain with their femur coming out of their ass, you say, “Doesn’t feel good, does it? Sure would hate for that to happen again.” They need a healthy respect for the automobile. It’s going to save their lives and it’s going to save me time.
This may not be too much of an issue for you, Natalia, being a honky and all. This slow-crosswalking is the domain of the brothers. I think it’s a subtle revenge for slavery and racism. As if to say, “I’m taking my time, Whitey.” I’ve always found it ironic as I watch the big brother amble across the street, that the world’s fastest men are the world’s slowest pedestrians.
Past Life Regression Chick: Natalia, let me just tell you, this is your one go around. You’ve never had a past life. If you decide, at a certain point, that you must have been someone in a past life, rest assured that in this life you’ll be a chick without a dad.
I’m always amazed at the gullibility of the ladies (though some guys do it, too) who are into this past life regression nonsense. These charlatans are just telling you what you want to hear to make you feel better about your loser life. Sure, you’re a fat chick strung out on painkillers now, but a few hundred years ago you were Joan of Arc. Feel better? That will be seventy-five dollars. Ever notice that past life regression only seems to go back five hundred years? What about the fifty thousand we spent as cavemen? It’s always, “You were a knight during the Crusades” or “You were a poet in ancient Rome.” It’s never, “You were just some hairy asshole eating bark until you froze to death.”
And, finally…
Complicated Starbucks Order Chick: I was behind one of these clowns not too long ago, and the order was so inane and complicated I had to run to buy a notepad, just so I could write it down and make fun of her on the podcast. She ordered a “grande ski
Let’s take a look at the bigger picture. This was attention-seeking behavior. If I hadn’t been behind this chick, if she were alone in that Starbucks, she would have ordered a medium black coffee and called it a day. But because there were witnesses, she had to make her order as long as the Magna Carta. Asking for “light foam” and “extra hot” is just a way of complicating things so that there’s one more thing the lowly barista can screw up for her highness to complain about.
These retards are retarding the process. Congratulations, bitch, you’ve successfully slowed down everyone else’s life to make it about you. You don’t love foam, you love you. I opened the door to the place and hit someone in the ass due to the line you caused, because the poor Starbucks kid is now heating up Bunsen burners and putting shit in centrifuges so that you can have your perfect cup of coffee. It’s not even coffee anymore. Starbucks is diabolical. Calorically, what this pretentious bitch was ordering is probably as bad as a Blizzard from Dairy Queen, but they’ve called it a coffee, so she gets to feel like she’s not just buying and consuming a hot milkshake. This is also bullying the person behind the counter. You’re lording your power over the poor tattooed teen.
There should be two lines, one for regular people like me who just want a caffeine delivery system. There would be a sign reading “Normal” above it. In that line, you can only order coffee and, when you do, it’s just called a medium, and you put the milk and sugar in yourself. Then there would be another line with a sign above it reading “Poser Douche,” for the assholes who want to order the seasonal macchiato, light foam, extra hot, with soy milk, easy on the nutmeg.