Or, 3 Reasons Why I Sometimes Consider Visiting a Firing Range
1. Bad calls.
There are many injustices in this crazy world, but few can inspire the bitter outrage of blown calls. The stakes of these games can be so high—and yet the outcome can literally rest in the hands of one ass-clown official. I nearly lost my mind in October when the Braves were knocked out of the playoffs after the single most idiotic call in the history of everything. That was Chipper’s last game, y’all. His one chance to play for another World Series before his retirement. And this man ruined it.
I actually cried tears of helpless rage in front of Buffalo Wild Wings’ entire clientele when this happened. Two months later, I’m still deeply wroth. I still have a picture of this son of Satan on my fridge with some particularly vulgar decorations of my own addition. Incidents like these tend to, erm, rankle a bit if I can’t find an outlet for my ire.
Every day, the general public finds a way to steal a little bit more of my sanity. I don’t know why I continue to place so much stock in common courtesy when my expectations get repeatedly bitch-slapped, but I do. I can’t help it. I keep hoping that people will be as considerate of me as I am of them. I don’t block the aisle with my buggy. I don’t stop suddenly in a crowded public place or walk backwards without looking. I don’t force other motorists to absorb shock waves from my stereo. When I worked in food service, I didn’t just stare blankly at people when they came up to the counter. I always say thank you when someone holds the door. I use my blinker and go a constant speed on the highway (for the love of God, cruise control!). Sometimes I even roll out extra paper towels for the person washing their hands after me in the ladies’ restroom. And what do I get for my pains? Oblivious dolts impeding my path in every public place ever. Sullen trolls behind every register and food counter. Some fool blasting his bass loud enough to jiggle my internal organs at every stoplight. By the time I make it home from outings amongst the populace, I’m just one giant raw nerve. Curse you all, you pack of mouth-breathing pig-eyed savages.
3. Cat hair.
Look, I love my cats. They are the joy of my old age (did I mention I turn 30 next month? guess I’ll be getting my AARP invite soon) and the light of my life. But THEIR HAIR. Y’all. It’s everywhere. I dust. I vacuum. I dust some more. I clean the wads of fur out of the poor choked Roomba every ten minutes. I scrape the furniture with this doodad. I brush the cats (when they let me).
The cleaning of cat hair never ends. And yet, when the sun is shining just right through the window, I can see kilos of fecking cat hair floating in the atmosphere. I sit down on a chair and a cloud of the stuff explodes around me. I go to a restaurant and find cat hair in my food. From my own clothes. Aaaaauuuughhhhhghhh.