Insincere people
who live in north Virgina:
that's the shallow South.
Showing posts with label jerks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label jerks. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Actually, I Wasn't Having a Bad Day...
I stepped out of the pizza place holding my second slice on a paper plate and chewing the crust from my first. Immediately a dude approached and said, "Sorry to bother you. I know you're probably having a bad day. But could you give me a quarter? I need to make a phone call."
He was late 40s, jeans and a t-shirt, not homeless-looking or anything. Still, I didn't buy it.
"I don't buy it," I said. I walked away.
A few questions came to mind as I bit into slice number two. Was he telling the truth? Perhaps he was. Perhaps he truly needed to make a phone call, but he didn't have a cell phone. There were a number of plausible scenarios that could have driven him to ask me for two bits.
Maybe he dropped his phone on the subway tracks and instead of jumping down and trying to retrieve it before the next train came, he wisely decided it was safer to tell the attendant at the booth that he dropped it. Except when he got there, the booth was empty. No problem, he thought, I'll just go above ground and call the MTA from a pay phone. But when this responsible citizen reached the nearest pay phone bank, he fished through his pockets only to find that he was twenty-five cents short. He only had a dime! Undeterred, our intrepid commuter decided to take a page from Blanche DuBois's book; he would depend on the kindness of strangers. This probably hurt his pride a little, but he knew this was no time for emotions to get the better of him. Of course he would be polite. He would put others' feelings ahead of his own and not assume that his misfortunes were worse than whatever they were going through. For all he knew, the next person he asked for a quarter was on the way to a funeral, or had just been fired and didn't know how he would provide for his family now. And he wouldn't judge people if they didn't believe his need was genuine. I probably wouldn't believe it either, he likely told himself as I strolled away, happy with a pocket full of quarters.
Or maybe he had a phone in his pocket, but he had a pre-paid plan and he was only three minutes away from exceeding it. Any minute now he was expecting a phone call from his son-in-law, telling him that the delivery had gone swimmingly and he was a grandfather! He knew that that phone call would eat up his minutes, so he would be unable to call his drinking buddy, Amos, and tell him the good news. Well, good for him. Bad for Amos, because Amos had picked next week as the baby's due date in the office pool, and that meant he would lose upwards of fifty bucks. Oh, to hear the regret in Amos's voice. What satisfaction! He'd finally get Amos back for the time he lost that Superbowl bet. But how could he hear it if he couldn't call Amos? Hence the quarter.
Then again, the quarter might not have had anything to do with telecommunication. Maybe, like me, he had just eaten a slice or two of pizza. The blind date he was meeting in five minutes around the corner at the bar (just drinks, casual) wouldn't like it too much if he spent two hours breathing garlic breath at her. He found the answer, of course, at a deli two doors down: a gumball machine! Only problem was he only had credit cards on him, no cash at all (why hadn't he gone to the ATM?). He couldn't ask the clerk to change a bill he didn't have. He'd have to beg for money. But he couldn't tell the truth - that would seem weird. He decided a little white lie couldn't hurt. Enter pizza-munching Steve, a man who surely could spare a quarter. Here was a way to turn an evening of garlic words into a night of passion-fruit flavored passion. Except I kept walking.
But probably he wanted money because he was just 25 cents away from a cool fifth of Mad Dog 20/20.
He was late 40s, jeans and a t-shirt, not homeless-looking or anything. Still, I didn't buy it.
"I don't buy it," I said. I walked away.
A few questions came to mind as I bit into slice number two. Was he telling the truth? Perhaps he was. Perhaps he truly needed to make a phone call, but he didn't have a cell phone. There were a number of plausible scenarios that could have driven him to ask me for two bits.
Maybe he dropped his phone on the subway tracks and instead of jumping down and trying to retrieve it before the next train came, he wisely decided it was safer to tell the attendant at the booth that he dropped it. Except when he got there, the booth was empty. No problem, he thought, I'll just go above ground and call the MTA from a pay phone. But when this responsible citizen reached the nearest pay phone bank, he fished through his pockets only to find that he was twenty-five cents short. He only had a dime! Undeterred, our intrepid commuter decided to take a page from Blanche DuBois's book; he would depend on the kindness of strangers. This probably hurt his pride a little, but he knew this was no time for emotions to get the better of him. Of course he would be polite. He would put others' feelings ahead of his own and not assume that his misfortunes were worse than whatever they were going through. For all he knew, the next person he asked for a quarter was on the way to a funeral, or had just been fired and didn't know how he would provide for his family now. And he wouldn't judge people if they didn't believe his need was genuine. I probably wouldn't believe it either, he likely told himself as I strolled away, happy with a pocket full of quarters.
Or maybe he had a phone in his pocket, but he had a pre-paid plan and he was only three minutes away from exceeding it. Any minute now he was expecting a phone call from his son-in-law, telling him that the delivery had gone swimmingly and he was a grandfather! He knew that that phone call would eat up his minutes, so he would be unable to call his drinking buddy, Amos, and tell him the good news. Well, good for him. Bad for Amos, because Amos had picked next week as the baby's due date in the office pool, and that meant he would lose upwards of fifty bucks. Oh, to hear the regret in Amos's voice. What satisfaction! He'd finally get Amos back for the time he lost that Superbowl bet. But how could he hear it if he couldn't call Amos? Hence the quarter.
Then again, the quarter might not have had anything to do with telecommunication. Maybe, like me, he had just eaten a slice or two of pizza. The blind date he was meeting in five minutes around the corner at the bar (just drinks, casual) wouldn't like it too much if he spent two hours breathing garlic breath at her. He found the answer, of course, at a deli two doors down: a gumball machine! Only problem was he only had credit cards on him, no cash at all (why hadn't he gone to the ATM?). He couldn't ask the clerk to change a bill he didn't have. He'd have to beg for money. But he couldn't tell the truth - that would seem weird. He decided a little white lie couldn't hurt. Enter pizza-munching Steve, a man who surely could spare a quarter. Here was a way to turn an evening of garlic words into a night of passion-fruit flavored passion. Except I kept walking.
But probably he wanted money because he was just 25 cents away from a cool fifth of Mad Dog 20/20.
Monday, March 8, 2010
ELR Fan Mail #5
I wish I could put this strange encounter behind me, but journalistic integrity compels me to post the following letter.
Dear Esoteric Literary POSER [sic],
I can't believe you posted a semi-dramatized version of the verbal beat-up I administered to you last week. (I say 'beat-up' because everyone else would say 'beat-down', and I am different from and therefore better than everyone else.) Actually I can believe you posted it, because you're the biggest poser I've ever met.
Even your faux-obscure blog title reveals how big of a poser you are. Esoteric? No, you poser, you are not esoteric. You wish. You are, in fact, exoteric. Everyone understands your blog because it's run-of-the-mill, just like you are. And anyone who looks at your snaps knows it.
When you think about it (which you won't, because your mind is too mainstream to begin to conceive of things the way I do), I should be the one with an esoteric blog. I am esoteric. And believe me, you poser, when I say that if I had a blog I would post the most random and mind-boggling content you had ever seen. Except you wouldn't see it, because my blog would actually be esoteric, so that only about six people in the entire world would be able to appreciate it. But even they wouldn't read it, because they'd be too real to lower themselves to read something as ubiquitous and pedestrian as a blog. Plus, I'm too busy being deliberately contrarian to ever start a blog (which from now on I will call a 'bleeg'. Only I can use this word).
I don't expect you to write back to this letter and/or post it on your bleeg. But if you do, I bet it will be in the least original way possible, like in a plural third person. As if anyone else but poser you maintains this (un-ironic) joke of a site.
If I were you, I'd kill myself...except I wouldn't, because suicide is so poser...except I would, because I'd be you and you're a poser. Go watch Avatar and drink a Coke, you plebeian.
Authentically,
"Bearded Gaffing Hipster"
(a.k.a. Ripley LaDouche - my real, genuine, unique name)
Dear Mr. LaDouche,
We at Esoteric Literary Reference appreciate all feedback we receive about the site. Thank you for your correspondence!
We don't know how you found the blog. Nor do we know how you found Steve the other day when you were so randomly but purposefully cruel. But we do know that you read the blog, and for that we applaud you!
We're so glad that something we posted resonated with you. We're sure you'll be happy to learn that you're not alone. In fact, we've received hundreds of letters from other people who enjoyed the very same post you enjoyed. After all, that's our goal: connecting on a personal level with as many people as possible.
In our twenty-nine year history, we've discovered that there are certain fundamental truths about the human condition that people need and want to see displayed and uncovered in various artistic media over and over again. The post you connected with spoke to the need for individual identity within the context of a conforming society. Pressure to be like everyone else in our socio-economic circles can be overwhelming at times, but it's important to strike a balance between maintaining our selfhood and retreating from culture entirely.
Hopefully the post gave you some food for thought, LaDouche.
Try not to suck all the time,
Esoteric Literary Reference Letter Reply Dept.
(Steve)
P.S. - You used the word 'bleeg'. We don't know what that means.
Dear Esoteric Literary POSER [sic],
I can't believe you posted a semi-dramatized version of the verbal beat-up I administered to you last week. (I say 'beat-up' because everyone else would say 'beat-down', and I am different from and therefore better than everyone else.) Actually I can believe you posted it, because you're the biggest poser I've ever met.
Even your faux-obscure blog title reveals how big of a poser you are. Esoteric? No, you poser, you are not esoteric. You wish. You are, in fact, exoteric. Everyone understands your blog because it's run-of-the-mill, just like you are. And anyone who looks at your snaps knows it.
When you think about it (which you won't, because your mind is too mainstream to begin to conceive of things the way I do), I should be the one with an esoteric blog. I am esoteric. And believe me, you poser, when I say that if I had a blog I would post the most random and mind-boggling content you had ever seen. Except you wouldn't see it, because my blog would actually be esoteric, so that only about six people in the entire world would be able to appreciate it. But even they wouldn't read it, because they'd be too real to lower themselves to read something as ubiquitous and pedestrian as a blog. Plus, I'm too busy being deliberately contrarian to ever start a blog (which from now on I will call a 'bleeg'. Only I can use this word).
I don't expect you to write back to this letter and/or post it on your bleeg. But if you do, I bet it will be in the least original way possible, like in a plural third person. As if anyone else but poser you maintains this (un-ironic) joke of a site.
If I were you, I'd kill myself...except I wouldn't, because suicide is so poser...except I would, because I'd be you and you're a poser. Go watch Avatar and drink a Coke, you plebeian.
Authentically,
"Bearded Gaffing Hipster"
(a.k.a. Ripley LaDouche - my real, genuine, unique name)
Dear Mr. LaDouche,
We at Esoteric Literary Reference appreciate all feedback we receive about the site. Thank you for your correspondence!
We don't know how you found the blog. Nor do we know how you found Steve the other day when you were so randomly but purposefully cruel. But we do know that you read the blog, and for that we applaud you!
We're so glad that something we posted resonated with you. We're sure you'll be happy to learn that you're not alone. In fact, we've received hundreds of letters from other people who enjoyed the very same post you enjoyed. After all, that's our goal: connecting on a personal level with as many people as possible.
In our twenty-nine year history, we've discovered that there are certain fundamental truths about the human condition that people need and want to see displayed and uncovered in various artistic media over and over again. The post you connected with spoke to the need for individual identity within the context of a conforming society. Pressure to be like everyone else in our socio-economic circles can be overwhelming at times, but it's important to strike a balance between maintaining our selfhood and retreating from culture entirely.
Hopefully the post gave you some food for thought, LaDouche.
Try not to suck all the time,
Esoteric Literary Reference Letter Reply Dept.
(Steve)
P.S. - You used the word 'bleeg'. We don't know what that means.
Friday, March 5, 2010
A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to the Drug Store
I have owned a skateboard for about two years. It is styled by the manufacturer as a mini-longboard, which basically means it has big wheels like a longboard but it's short. This skateboard is a handy mode of transportation around my neighborhood. I use it to go to the store, the post office, and anywhere nearby. It's faster than walking. This is the reason I use it.
I do not use it for recreation. I no more consider myself a skateboarder than a casual cyclist considers himself Lance Armstrong or a mom in a Volvo considers herself [insert name of famous NASCAR driver here].
I suppose that's why I was so surprised the other day by the tongue-lashing I received from a stranger on my way to the drug store.
Here's the scene:
I'm walking to the Duane Reade in my neighborhood, carrying my mini-longboard. (I have been skateboarding, but feel like walking for the last block.) As I approach Starbucks, I spot a Bearded Hipster holding a standard longboard. Comes up to about his waist. He is heavyset and has a backpack with a roll of red gaffer tape hanging from it.
I approach and overtake him. I think about complimenting his board, but decide against it; he probably doesn't want to be bothered. Then he spots me.
Bearded Gaffing Hipster: Nice toy.
I turn, smiling. He's looking at my skateboard.
Bearded Gaffing Hipster: Do you know how to ride it or do you need someone to give you lessons?
Note: His tone indicates that he is not altruistically offering to give me lessons; rather he is mocking me because he (correctly) assumes based on my choice of skateboard that I am but a boarding dilettante.
Me: Yeah, actually, I don't know how to ride it.
(Laughing. Ha-ha, self-deprecating.) I turn and keep walking. He shuffles faster and catches up to me. Then he says something like:
Bearded Gaffing Hipster: I see you have your snaps all done like a poser.
Me: I don't know what that means.
Bearded Gaffing Hipster: Of course you don't.
(And I still don't.) We walk side by side.
Me: Why are you being a jerk, man?
Bearded Gaffing Hipster: Oh, I'm like this to everybody. It's nothing personal.
Me: (emphatic) No. It is personal. You're a person and I'm a person. It's personal.
Bearded Gaffing Hipster: Oo, are we gonna throw down?
I reach Duane Reade and head to the door. Now a double stroller and a short woman (mom or nanny?) stand between us. I shout over the stroller and woman.
Me: You don't have to be a [redacted] to everybody!
Bearded Gaffing Hipster: Yes, I do!
I enter Duane Reade alone and without closure.
This happened. I make up a bunch of stuff, but this anecdote is not one of those things. I still toss and turn at night, wrestling with one question: why? Why did he choose to berate me so? I felt like a kicked puppy, the victim of senseless random violence, guilty only of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. (And of being cute/carrying a skateboard.)
I wonder where the Bearded Gaffing Hipster is now? Probably verbally assaulting a little old lady because she doesn't realize her Cadillac "still has the lame factory rims". What a poser she surely is.
I do not use it for recreation. I no more consider myself a skateboarder than a casual cyclist considers himself Lance Armstrong or a mom in a Volvo considers herself [insert name of famous NASCAR driver here].
I suppose that's why I was so surprised the other day by the tongue-lashing I received from a stranger on my way to the drug store.
Here's the scene:
I'm walking to the Duane Reade in my neighborhood, carrying my mini-longboard. (I have been skateboarding, but feel like walking for the last block.) As I approach Starbucks, I spot a Bearded Hipster holding a standard longboard. Comes up to about his waist. He is heavyset and has a backpack with a roll of red gaffer tape hanging from it.
I approach and overtake him. I think about complimenting his board, but decide against it; he probably doesn't want to be bothered. Then he spots me.
Bearded Gaffing Hipster: Nice toy.
I turn, smiling. He's looking at my skateboard.
Bearded Gaffing Hipster: Do you know how to ride it or do you need someone to give you lessons?
Note: His tone indicates that he is not altruistically offering to give me lessons; rather he is mocking me because he (correctly) assumes based on my choice of skateboard that I am but a boarding dilettante.
Me: Yeah, actually, I don't know how to ride it.
(Laughing. Ha-ha, self-deprecating.) I turn and keep walking. He shuffles faster and catches up to me. Then he says something like:
Bearded Gaffing Hipster: I see you have your snaps all done like a poser.
Me: I don't know what that means.
Bearded Gaffing Hipster: Of course you don't.
(And I still don't.) We walk side by side.
Me: Why are you being a jerk, man?
Bearded Gaffing Hipster: Oh, I'm like this to everybody. It's nothing personal.
Me: (emphatic) No. It is personal. You're a person and I'm a person. It's personal.
Bearded Gaffing Hipster: Oo, are we gonna throw down?
I reach Duane Reade and head to the door. Now a double stroller and a short woman (mom or nanny?) stand between us. I shout over the stroller and woman.
Me: You don't have to be a [redacted] to everybody!
Bearded Gaffing Hipster: Yes, I do!
I enter Duane Reade alone and without closure.
This happened. I make up a bunch of stuff, but this anecdote is not one of those things. I still toss and turn at night, wrestling with one question: why? Why did he choose to berate me so? I felt like a kicked puppy, the victim of senseless random violence, guilty only of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. (And of being cute/carrying a skateboard.)
I wonder where the Bearded Gaffing Hipster is now? Probably verbally assaulting a little old lady because she doesn't realize her Cadillac "still has the lame factory rims". What a poser she surely is.
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