December 2016 Archives

Yesterday, I went to see the Steelers beat the despised Ravens and clinch the division. I paid hundreds of dollars to be there, and the Steelers did not disappoint. Specifically, they did not disappoint me when I finished watching the game on TV. I lasted four minutes into the second quarter before the fan assholery reached the critical mass needed for me to summon Uber.

I've seen games in every NFL city but Buffalo, not to mention countless college and high school games. And in my expert opinion, fan behavior has gotten intolerably worse. Superfan was there last night, drunkenly berating everyone in his section for not following his cheers (all the while with his back to the game action). The guy next to me had something moronic to yell about every single play, maintaining a continuous imaginary dialogue with the coaches and players hundreds of feet away. "SHOW ME SUMPIN! SHOW ME SUMPIN! FUCKIN' SHOW ME SUMPIN! SHOW ME SUMPIN, BELL!" he opined. Superfan and Sumpinman consider themselves a vital part of everyone else's game-watching experience. They are mistaken.

But at least with them, assholery is a conscious choice. For the umpteenth game in a row, the douchenozzle in front of me would leap to his feet in the middle of a play. I had an excellent view of the huddle and of the players snapping the ball and of the ball being thrown into the air, at which point I had an excellent view of a fat ass, followed by the roar of the crowd.

I'm done.

Over the weekend, Dorkass and I played the video game Goldeneye, the mainstay of our 90s. Oh, how many times she shot my avatar in the nuts back in the day. This time, however, she was besot with twin glitches: 1) her controller wasn't working, so she had to use her mouse and keyboard, and 2) I was invisible. I easily hunted her down and killed her, over and over, without the slightest risk to myself.

This was by far, bar none, unequivocally my best day in 2016.

For all my groaning when Anakin held forth about the perils of sand, at least I was paying attention to Attack of the Clones. During Rogue One, my mind wandered. I started thinking about work. It's not like I'm under a deadline or anything. It was just more interesting to think about than the movie in front of me. When the destination of a movie is known, your traveling companions had better be interesting. They were not. I could not describe any character in any more depth than "candid" or "good fighter." This was a movie without a single creative reason for existing.

Oh, and Darth Vader now drops shitty movie puns like Arnold circa 1988. Thanks, corporate hacks.

I'm in the middle of a miserable, soul-depleting slog at work. I find myself again entertaining graphic fantasies of faking my own death just so I don't have to complete the job. This is normal, right?

I fired two more Pittsburgh contractors this week. Well, maybe that's overstating it. They arguably quit. Can you really fire someone when they don't show up for the appointment?

I vented to Andy, a lifelong Pittsburgher. He was born here, went to Pitt, and started a family here. There is a 100% chance of his dying here. My rant concluded with the phrase that has come to define my 2016: "a culture of low expectations."

"Oh, I don't agree with that!" replied the man who recommended the contractors, who pays triple taxes for half-services, who doesn't understand why I think it's unusual that my garbage guys always leave trash in my lawn.

D'ere's yer problem, right d'ere.

Part I
Part II

I visited the dive bar last night and found no available seats. Among the seats' occupants was, in fact, Lucy. I smiled as I walked past and said hi. She gagged and managed an uncomfortable nod. Ordinarily, I would have grabbed a stool and had a drink, letting her approach me if she chose. But without an open seat, my only options were to leave or to force the issue with someone who quite probably despises me. So I left.

"YOU JUST MADE THIS SO MUCH WORSE! THAT'S EVEN WORSE THAN LEAVING THE FIRST TIME!" counseled a female friend via text.

Sigh.

Many years ago, I was driving an old friend, Beth, to dinner. Recounting a deep and dark secret from her past, she was in tears. Actual weeping. This is all the more significant because she never, ever cries. She laid her heart bare that day. It was unprecedented vulnerability from a taciturn person.

As I pulled into a parking spot, she was in mid-sentence. A pretty girl in a brown ponytail entered my field of vision. WHAM! I racked my Jeep against the curb.

“Fucking really?” said a throughly disgusted Beth.