This Week in Rage – 6/12/13
This Week in Rage – a blog about the top three things that pissed me off this week:
Airport Scanner Shoeprint: My newest among many complaints about airport security is that now when you get in that scanner not only are you probably getting cancer, there two foot prints to tell you where to stand. But they look like shoe prints from the 1940s. They have a heel mark and a sole mark. It’s a shoe a reporter would have worn during Prohibition along with a hat with a tag that says “PRESS” on it. Please TSA, don’t insult me with your old time wing-tip shoe print. I don’t see a lot of guys who look like Fred McMurray about to get on the flight. Plus you’ve already made me take my shoes off. Why are you taunting me? You’ve painted shoes to imply a utopia where we’re treated like adults and get to keep our shoes on. You’ve stolen my dignity and my sole. I found myself angry standing in that tube. “Man, look at that. That fake guy got to keep his shoes.”
Room Service Tip Included: As you might know I don’t like when they add the gratuity at the restaurant when you have the party of six or more. That’s just called a tax or a tariff. If you look up gratuity the definition is “a gift or reward, usually of money, for services rendered, given without claim or obligation.” I understand why they think this is necessary but isn’t that the way tipping works. Sometimes you’re going to get stiffed, other times Phil Spector is going to come in, order a Shirley Temple and leave you five hundred bucks. Kimmel tips like 50%, my parents are coming in at around 9%. So it evens out. But recently I stumbled into this heavy thought – how come it’s included in room service? I’m alone in my underpants with a boner. That’s just one person, or two if you count my dong. Either way, it’s not six. So why is the tip included? And what if you did have 6 people in your hotel room for a couple overpriced, underwhelming burgers? Would you waive the tip altogether? Please, let’s get out tip shit together.
Walking Molly: Lynette said to me the other day that I needed to take my dog Molly for a walk. She then added “and not one of your bullshit short walks either, where you just go to the corner. She needs a real walk.” Well, I was running late that night, I needed to go to work at the podcast, so I hit her with this brilliant observation. ‘There are dog years right? Well doesn’t that mean there are dog weeks and dog minutes? If it’s seven years to our one year then isn’t my ten minute ‘short’ walk actually a seventy minute walk?” (I’m not sure how to type out the sound of my long, self-satisfied sniff). “I’m taking her out for over an hour as far as she’s concerned. If I take her out for an hour that’s gonna be seven hours to her. Do you want me to kill the bitch?” I’m taking Molly on – to her – a one hour walk. That’s enough.” Lynette couldn’t really do the dog-to-people time conversion but, you know, chicks and math.