Let’s never take these photos again. We can do better.
Can everybody stop pretending to be weird?
Look, I wish life was like a Wes Anderson movie too — I really do. But unfortunately in the “real world” we have to do shit. Real shit…like work hard and make money, so we can eat and meet our obligations.
Of course, there are actual quirky people. And they are often charming, interesting and cutely awkward. The key difference is their modesty. They can still function as people and not be completely self-involved at every moment.
They don’t parade around the city while wearing a suit, playing the ukulele in a city park with a girl who wishes she was Zooey Deschanel. They don’t pretend they’re pigeon toed when they sit down. They have no interest in faking an accent for a day. They don’t pretend they’re nervous when they’re not. And no, they don’t use typewriters. No one does.
The iPad is supposed to be the future. But it sure doesn’t look like it when some lawyer, or Pharmaceutical Sales Rep., or some Industry Asshole, in the front row of the concert you’re at is holding up a 10-inch screen to record the band. It looks like what humans should have been doing in the 1980s. It’s backwards. Use your cell phone dude. I don’t want to watch the concert I’m currently at on your iPad.
Though, it could be worse…
It started with cupcakes about a decade ago. Then, like a virus, it spread rapidly…to pancakes, waffles, frozen yogurt, doughnuts, cheesecake, whoopie pies, onion rings, and even cocktails. Yeah, I said onion rings. Then everyone got so fat they just started sticking chunks of red velvet cake into gelato. How has the red velvet era lasted this long and how has nothing overtaken it? Who is not bored by this flavor at this point?
Red velvet has joined the ranks of bacon and butter – a food crutch; a fast and easy way to satisfy chunksters everywhere.
Wake up America. Come to the party with something new. I don’t want your dried up, uninspired cakes. It’s not charming anymore. What’s more is, I don’t want to see your proud smile as you watch everyone eat your boring, over-iced creations at a party or potluck, like you’re some culinary mastermind. We’re eating them because we’re drunk off our asses, not because they’re good. So settle down sweetheart and make a pie next time. Preferably a berry one.
Red Velvet, you did nothing more than pour some red dye into chocolate cake batter one day. From there, you started a revolution. And you had a solid decade — be happy. But now it’s time to call your bluff and inform you that you have been dismissed.
HEY! Put down the 50-piece Chicken McNugget meal, stop fingering your girlfriend, and listen up: it’s Alzheimer’s Disease, not “Old-Timer’s.” Alzheimer’s.
How do you get past the age of 9 and not learn this? It’s a major, big-deal, disease. At least give the people who suffer from this form of dementia some dignity, rather than some shitty play on words. Do you tell someone who has HIV to “stay positive”? No. Because that is lame and cruel too.
Don’t rub salt into their wound with your ignorance. They know they’re old and losing their mind (actually they probably don’t), but anyway, you don’t need to remind them every time you mispronounce the name of their disease.
Say it with me: Alzheimer’s. Now back to the McNuggets.
I know you. You get up at 7am every morning, run 3 miles, shower, and then bike to work. You work a 12 hour shift at a job you absolutely love. You go above and beyond your original job description because you have ideas that increase production and profitability. And your ideas work. Your boss loves you; he pats you on the back. You go to the gym on your lunch break, “eating just slows me down,” you tell your coworkers. Then you still have energy to come home and go out on the town, see a film, hang with friends, and buy drinks for everyone. Always smiling. Then on weekends you build a new deck in the backyard, plant a citrus tree, or maybe even skydive. Maybe all three. You throw a barbeque, clean, do laundry, run five more miles, write a draft to a novel you always tossed around in your head, call your parents, tell them you “love them”, tend to the garden, and volunteer at the local YMCA. Your hair is always perfectly quaffed and you look 5 years younger than your actual age. You finally go to bed around 2:30am – first one up, last one to bed.
I admire you. But you’re still dismissed.
Remember a long time ago, when romaine lettuce seemed exotic? I bought into the idea and was happy eating it: crisp, hearty, and the leaves could stand up to any dressing, no matter how moist. Then baby spinach walked into town and frankly, he had a good run, until…mixed greens. I could tolerate mixed greens – variety is the spice of life sort of thing. But then mixed greens were killed off by the ultimate asshole: kale.
I know it’s a superfood. I know. I get it. You can stop mentioning it every time you order your salad. Seriously. Stop. But let’s be real for a brief moment – kale doesn’t even taste that good. No matter how long I steam it, or cook it, my fork still can’t penetrate its waxy coating. And even when I do manage to get a leaf to my mouth, it’s just bitter and bland.
Let’s stop pretending we enjoy it. Kale, romaine, spinach: they’re all just a vehicle to deliver salad dressing to our mouths. You know you’d rather have a wedge of iceberg with ranch dressing dripping down the side.
But it’s not just kale, it’s the fact that everyone who orders kale is a major dick. They’re the kind of people that have to change everything about the very salad they just ordered (dressing on the side, dried cranberries instead of croutons, tofu instead of chicken, hold the walnuts but add sunflower seeds, and can you steam my kale one-and-a-half minutes longer than you normally do?). It’s just a salad; I promise you it’s nothing important.
Side note: “Kale” is what uppity parents name their bitchy sons. Coincidence?
I’m over it.
I’m sorry that I walked into your establishment (with a smile mind you), paid $5.50 for a cup of coffee, and then had the audacity to ask you a question. How rude of me. I apologize for not knowing the difference between your Takesi Bolivian beans and your El Machete brew. I’m so terribly naive. Do you hate me? Is it because I’m not wearing a herringbone newsboy golf cap?
Hello? Why are you pretending not to hear me?
I’m saddened that we all sat idle while the act of brewing and pouring coffee rose to an art form. One of us should have objected. Now we are left to deal with baristas who think they are rock stars because they can pour foam into the shape of a heart. What is that anyway? I think it’s time they come up with a new industry standard shape to pour. Perhaps a middle finger? Just saying.
(Annoying white girl voice): Mimosa’s anyone? The best cure for a hangover is to drink more! (Followed by loud cackles).
Ugh. Nothing gets me more bummed than seeing a bunch of single women sitting around a table talking loudly about how crazy they got on Saturday night and then eye-fucking every guy that walks by, while eating frittatas and fried potatoes — AND getting drunk at 11am.
You’re single for a reason ladies.
To Whom It May Concern,
Recently we have noticed a rash of young-ish business professionals casually spouting the word “cray.” Thanks Jay-Z and Kanye! We find this embarrassing. It sends shivers down our spines every time we hear it.
“Did you see Richard’s 3rd Quarter financial projections? That spread sheet was cray-cray.”
“I absolutely must have that recipe for the red wine poached tofu steak you made the other night. That shit was cray good.”
If you utter this word or phrase, please stop being difficult and cease using it immediately. When 30-something, well-off, professionals start using a term it becomes dead for all of us – for eternity. Maybe that’s a good thing.