Putting Fuel in
the Car
Is there a more wasteful way to spend your time than standing beside your car looking like you’re holding a giant metal phallic bowser-dick? You stand there as the longest minutes of your life tick by while you watch your hard earned dollars pour into your car in the form of fuel, to be used to take you to and from work, to earn your money so that you can put it back into your car? This vicious circle shits me! For a start, it should be instantaneous! I don’t have time to wait for this annoyingly slow process and you know, when the sensor realises that the tank is almost full, it should stop BEFORE it splashes all over my hand and forearm or worse still, my suit jacket. I don’t want to walk around smelling like I just did the horizontal tango on the floor of an auto repair shop! It STINKS!
Why is it that every time I want to check the air pressure in my tyres, some old fart car enthusiast has parked his pitiful old Jalopy in the allocated space; walking around it at the speed of a snail checking the tires (which look a lot like mountain bike tires) with his stupid dark burgundy beret strategically placed on his bald dome and his scarf carefully knotted at his elderly, creased throat? Does he know he looks like a knob? You’re not James Bond mate, you’re a tool and you’re wasting my time. Piss off!
When I go inside to pay, the attendant should be advised that I DON’T want to buy a fucking chocolate bar or pack of gum – I’ve just spent a cool $100 on fuel! Wipe the bored expression off your face, be polite, speedy and efficient and let me get the fuck out of there. Refuelling my car SHITS me!
Is there a more wasteful way to spend your time than standing beside your car looking like you’re holding a giant metal phallic bowser-dick? You stand there as the longest minutes of your life tick by while you watch your hard earned dollars pour into your car in the form of fuel, to be used to take you to and from work, to earn your money so that you can put it back into your car? This vicious circle shits me! For a start, it should be instantaneous! I don’t have time to wait for this annoyingly slow process and you know, when the sensor realises that the tank is almost full, it should stop BEFORE it splashes all over my hand and forearm or worse still, my suit jacket. I don’t want to walk around smelling like I just did the horizontal tango on the floor of an auto repair shop! It STINKS!
Why is it that every time I want to check the air pressure in my tyres, some old fart car enthusiast has parked his pitiful old Jalopy in the allocated space; walking around it at the speed of a snail checking the tires (which look a lot like mountain bike tires) with his stupid dark burgundy beret strategically placed on his bald dome and his scarf carefully knotted at his elderly, creased throat? Does he know he looks like a knob? You’re not James Bond mate, you’re a tool and you’re wasting my time. Piss off!
When I go inside to pay, the attendant should be advised that I DON’T want to buy a fucking chocolate bar or pack of gum – I’ve just spent a cool $100 on fuel! Wipe the bored expression off your face, be polite, speedy and efficient and let me get the fuck out of there. Refuelling my car SHITS me!
Bad Drivers, Slow
Walkers & Sudden Stoppers
Bad drivers – this includes anyone with a blue-rinse or bowling hat driving at tortoise pace irrespective of the speed limit, gripping the steering wheel like it’s a life line, going around parked cars and changing lanes willy nilly without indicating their intentions to other road users; generally driving about like it’s still 1918!
Blue collar Tradesmen who drive like they’ve got a flea up their arse, zooming right up to your bumper or darting between cars in the various lanes shit me. They hurl verbal abuse and gesticulate their ire at anyone doing the speed limit or having the audacity to turn into a side street and generally behave like pugnacious ratbags. Even though they dart about amongst the traffic like crazy angry ants, trying to get to the front of the pack so they can break the speed of sound getting home in time to crack a tinny or two before dinner, they still end up next to me at each set of lights so their road rage is all for naught.
Stupid wives (some possibly mail order) who take fifteen minutes to perform a thirty-six point turn in their rich husband’s Mercedes Benz in a crowded underground car park, creating a long line of frustrated people waiting patiently for the stupid bitch to back the car in, only to tap the back wall with the bumper, shit me. These women need to be slapped across the face with a prickly pear cactus. You CANNOT drive so fuck off and take public transport. Pain in my arse!
Last but my no means least, let’s not forget those people who drive a roller skate sized car but park to the side of the car space, right up against my car door so I need a can opener to get back into my car and nearly rip my tits off in the process or just about tear myself a giant multifunctional orifice on the gear stick as I clamber over from the passenger side. I usually cannot get into my car or drive away without a mini tantrum followed by a terse note under the wiper on this useless prick’s windscreen…and a prayer that there is a giant huntsman spider sitting silently… waiting under his driver’s side sun visor. Fucker!
Bad drivers – this includes anyone with a blue-rinse or bowling hat driving at tortoise pace irrespective of the speed limit, gripping the steering wheel like it’s a life line, going around parked cars and changing lanes willy nilly without indicating their intentions to other road users; generally driving about like it’s still 1918!
Blue collar Tradesmen who drive like they’ve got a flea up their arse, zooming right up to your bumper or darting between cars in the various lanes shit me. They hurl verbal abuse and gesticulate their ire at anyone doing the speed limit or having the audacity to turn into a side street and generally behave like pugnacious ratbags. Even though they dart about amongst the traffic like crazy angry ants, trying to get to the front of the pack so they can break the speed of sound getting home in time to crack a tinny or two before dinner, they still end up next to me at each set of lights so their road rage is all for naught.
Stupid wives (some possibly mail order) who take fifteen minutes to perform a thirty-six point turn in their rich husband’s Mercedes Benz in a crowded underground car park, creating a long line of frustrated people waiting patiently for the stupid bitch to back the car in, only to tap the back wall with the bumper, shit me. These women need to be slapped across the face with a prickly pear cactus. You CANNOT drive so fuck off and take public transport. Pain in my arse!
Last but my no means least, let’s not forget those people who drive a roller skate sized car but park to the side of the car space, right up against my car door so I need a can opener to get back into my car and nearly rip my tits off in the process or just about tear myself a giant multifunctional orifice on the gear stick as I clamber over from the passenger side. I usually cannot get into my car or drive away without a mini tantrum followed by a terse note under the wiper on this useless prick’s windscreen…and a prayer that there is a giant huntsman spider sitting silently… waiting under his driver’s side sun visor. Fucker!
Slow walkers & Stoppers - this is a shared annoyance
in my house. Miss Marvellous, aka TheFandomAddict, did a whole YouTube
rant on the subject – my favourite of her videos because I FEEL her
frustration.
If you’re walking in front of me, then walk and walk briskly. Don’t meander along, changing direction or wandering about all over the path like a stoned and confused cow. If you’re a slow walker, keep to the left because you’re going to get lost in my vapour trail as I power past you. I have to get from A to B and if you’re in my way, I’m either going to go around you or yell loudly “EXCUSE ME” in your earhole, which is the politest way I know how to say “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!”
Do not EVER just stop. I don’t care if a scorpion has just stung your eyeball – if you need to take a minute, move off the path! If you suddenly come to a halt whilst walking in front of me, you’re either going to get a smeared lipstick mark on your back, a Liverpool Kiss on the back of your head, footprints up the back of your legs or a combination of all three. Amazingly, people with a cane or walking frame already understand these rules and don’t pose a problem; it’s the non-invalids who shit me the most, shuffling along oblivious to everyone around them. STOP IT! Look around you, arsehole – IT’S A SHARED PATH! Now move on and don’t shit me!
If you’re walking in front of me, then walk and walk briskly. Don’t meander along, changing direction or wandering about all over the path like a stoned and confused cow. If you’re a slow walker, keep to the left because you’re going to get lost in my vapour trail as I power past you. I have to get from A to B and if you’re in my way, I’m either going to go around you or yell loudly “EXCUSE ME” in your earhole, which is the politest way I know how to say “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!”
Do not EVER just stop. I don’t care if a scorpion has just stung your eyeball – if you need to take a minute, move off the path! If you suddenly come to a halt whilst walking in front of me, you’re either going to get a smeared lipstick mark on your back, a Liverpool Kiss on the back of your head, footprints up the back of your legs or a combination of all three. Amazingly, people with a cane or walking frame already understand these rules and don’t pose a problem; it’s the non-invalids who shit me the most, shuffling along oblivious to everyone around them. STOP IT! Look around you, arsehole – IT’S A SHARED PATH! Now move on and don’t shit me!
Growing a
Tail/Taking a Dump
What a wasteful and annoying use of my time taking a shit is. There are so many other things I could be doing with my time that laying a length of cable. There is no pleasure to be derived from this annoying necessity. I cannot fathom how people (mostly men, in my experience) will seek out a newspaper or some other reading paraphernalia for this performance. Why are you taking your time and looking like you are about to enjoy the experience? It’s a shit – you’re ridding your body of rubbish. You don’t announce loudly to your audience that you’re off to the ‘throne’, smack the newspaper on your hand and wink at us all, strutting off to the abode like you’re taking your place on a coveted gilded chair. Why are you reading for half an hour with your arse hanging over a giant hole waiting for the crap to exit? This behaviour is surely going to wave a huge ‘welcome’ sign at your guts to give up on fighting gravity and just slide on out ‘pink sock’ fashion. What you should do is wait until the turtle pokes his head out, run like the clappers and then do the ‘drop and burn’ and get the fuck out of there. It’s not a pleasurable experience! SHITTING SHITS ME!
What a wasteful and annoying use of my time taking a shit is. There are so many other things I could be doing with my time that laying a length of cable. There is no pleasure to be derived from this annoying necessity. I cannot fathom how people (mostly men, in my experience) will seek out a newspaper or some other reading paraphernalia for this performance. Why are you taking your time and looking like you are about to enjoy the experience? It’s a shit – you’re ridding your body of rubbish. You don’t announce loudly to your audience that you’re off to the ‘throne’, smack the newspaper on your hand and wink at us all, strutting off to the abode like you’re taking your place on a coveted gilded chair. Why are you reading for half an hour with your arse hanging over a giant hole waiting for the crap to exit? This behaviour is surely going to wave a huge ‘welcome’ sign at your guts to give up on fighting gravity and just slide on out ‘pink sock’ fashion. What you should do is wait until the turtle pokes his head out, run like the clappers and then do the ‘drop and burn’ and get the fuck out of there. It’s not a pleasurable experience! SHITTING SHITS ME!
Dentists
I hate you all. You get all pissy with me for not visiting you in between the torture sessions and slowly declare the date of our last visit with your eyebrows arched in a condescending and accusational tone. Well why do you think that is? Could it possibly be because you look across at your assistant and tsk tsk at the view inside my mouth (which I take more care of than any other part of my body)? Could it be because you use percussion drills and jack hammers on my teeth and ram your suction hose down my throat with total disregard for my gag reflex? One of these days I’m going to throw up all over you… right after I’ve eaten a pizza with the lot! The words ‘root canal’ do not conjure up images of happy sex in a gondola in Venice, these words give me the night sweats. And why do I ALWAYS need a fucking crown? I should be royalty by now for all the royal shit you’ve installed in my mouth. When am I entitled to the throne, arsehole? You charge like we’re all rolling in cash and just because some arsehole couldn’t pay you up front, I have to sign a legal document that promises I’ll pay for the pain you inflict. You cause nothing but pain and leave me with nothing but pocket lint when I leave. There has never been a time when I have paid you to look inside my mouth and then heard you say “hey, all looks good here, I’ll see you in six months”. I’d probably die of shock anyway because you ALWAYS find something on my check-ups. That’s why I wait until my mouth is throbbing and I’m in that space where if someone held a gun to my head I’d beg them to pull the trigger, before I visit you, almost screaming at you to ‘rip the fucker out’. And how many times do I need to remind you about my reaction to the adrenalin in the anaesthetic you use? Every fucking time I sit there shaking like a half frozen Chihuahua; my pulse jumping about and my heart slamming against my ribs and watch your face register your error. You’re an arsehole, read my file! I hate you and all of your ilk! I’d rather back up to a proctologist and let him finger my arsehole than pay you a visit. YOU SHIT ME!
I hate you all. You get all pissy with me for not visiting you in between the torture sessions and slowly declare the date of our last visit with your eyebrows arched in a condescending and accusational tone. Well why do you think that is? Could it possibly be because you look across at your assistant and tsk tsk at the view inside my mouth (which I take more care of than any other part of my body)? Could it be because you use percussion drills and jack hammers on my teeth and ram your suction hose down my throat with total disregard for my gag reflex? One of these days I’m going to throw up all over you… right after I’ve eaten a pizza with the lot! The words ‘root canal’ do not conjure up images of happy sex in a gondola in Venice, these words give me the night sweats. And why do I ALWAYS need a fucking crown? I should be royalty by now for all the royal shit you’ve installed in my mouth. When am I entitled to the throne, arsehole? You charge like we’re all rolling in cash and just because some arsehole couldn’t pay you up front, I have to sign a legal document that promises I’ll pay for the pain you inflict. You cause nothing but pain and leave me with nothing but pocket lint when I leave. There has never been a time when I have paid you to look inside my mouth and then heard you say “hey, all looks good here, I’ll see you in six months”. I’d probably die of shock anyway because you ALWAYS find something on my check-ups. That’s why I wait until my mouth is throbbing and I’m in that space where if someone held a gun to my head I’d beg them to pull the trigger, before I visit you, almost screaming at you to ‘rip the fucker out’. And how many times do I need to remind you about my reaction to the adrenalin in the anaesthetic you use? Every fucking time I sit there shaking like a half frozen Chihuahua; my pulse jumping about and my heart slamming against my ribs and watch your face register your error. You’re an arsehole, read my file! I hate you and all of your ilk! I’d rather back up to a proctologist and let him finger my arsehole than pay you a visit. YOU SHIT ME!
Smart-cars
I don’t care that these cars are fuel efficient and easy to park… they are fucking UGLY sorn-off pieces of SHIT! They’re touted as very safe but when your car is the size of a house brick, a single rear-ender would have this shit-mobile stuck right up under the wheel hub of an average sized vehicle (and probably cause severe spinal damage to the driver and single passenger, who had BETTER be thin or they’ll get STUCK in it like a frigging SARDINE). Worse still, a truck would just drive over the stupid little pft pft piece of crap, thinking it had hit a bump in the road. I HATE them. I know my reaction to this hideous toy-like exhibit daring to call itself a car is irrational but I don’t care, I HATE THEM. If you own one…you probably wear Jesus sandals with socks. I THINK YOU’RE VERY FUCKING WEIRD!
I don’t care that these cars are fuel efficient and easy to park… they are fucking UGLY sorn-off pieces of SHIT! They’re touted as very safe but when your car is the size of a house brick, a single rear-ender would have this shit-mobile stuck right up under the wheel hub of an average sized vehicle (and probably cause severe spinal damage to the driver and single passenger, who had BETTER be thin or they’ll get STUCK in it like a frigging SARDINE). Worse still, a truck would just drive over the stupid little pft pft piece of crap, thinking it had hit a bump in the road. I HATE them. I know my reaction to this hideous toy-like exhibit daring to call itself a car is irrational but I don’t care, I HATE THEM. If you own one…you probably wear Jesus sandals with socks. I THINK YOU’RE VERY FUCKING WEIRD!
Rant over!
Doona
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