#6 Blackberries

The other morning I was checking my Facebook (something I regretfully do too often) and I noticed my buddy had updated his status several times the previous night.  The first read "having a great date weekend with xxxx (the name will remain anonymous to protect the innocent)" which was updated via his Blackberry.  A couple of hours later it read "dinner was great, now heading off for drinks."  Later it was changed to "the band Flaming Frank and the Fabulous Friggers is great." 

When the hell did Blackberries (or iPhones or any other cheap knockoff) replace human contact?  I mean, here is a guy who was out on a date with his wife and he felt it necessary to frequently divert his attention from the one person in the world who would probably help him bury a dead body.  Seriously, do you really need to check your e-mail/Facebook/twitter every two minutes?  That prince in Nigeria won't mind waiting a few hours to send you your inheritance.

And while we're on it, stop calling it a Crackberry.  At least crack gives you a physical high.  What the hell does a Blackberry give you, other than carpal tunnel syndrome and "phantom vibrations."  That's right, phantom vibrations.  Another friend of mine complained that he sometimes felt his Blackberry vibrating against his hip even when he wasn't wearing it.  Sweet Jesus.  Is this what the world is coming to, a population of gnarled-fingered, socially-retarded vibration hallucinators? 

I don't own a Blackberry, and for that matter I don't own a cell phone either.  I don't feel it's necessary that the world can contact me at any time, day or night.  But, you whine, I have a job where I need to be contacted 24/7.  That may be the case, but at some point you have to ask yourself what's more important, spending the incredibly short amount of time we have on Earth punching tiny buttons on an electronic vampire, or enjoying the little things, like a date night with someone you love.  On that note, I got myself a play date with two of the most awesome kids in the world.  Don't bother trying to reach me.

#5 Clothes Shopping

God I hate shopping for clothes.  It is the bane of my existence.  I absolutely avoid it at all costs.  Most of the time I bribe my wife into doing my shopping for me, which she gladly abides since I have no idea what looks good on me anyways. 

I hate not finding stuff that fits.  I'm 6'3" and 210 lbs, which is not exactly freakishly big but definitely on the right side of the bell curve.  Finding pants that fit is pretty much impossible in my neck of the woods.  Your typical 34L x 34W pants fit perfectly in the store, but after a wash or two I'm waiting for high tide.  Buy 36L pants you say.  Easier said than done I say.  Again, this is probably a function of supply and demand in my geographic area, but pants for tall people are a rare commodity here.  The same goes for shirts.  My perfect fitting shirt is Large Tall (which makes sense since I am both large and tall).  I am not extra large.  Extra large will work for a few washes, but then the shirt mysteriously, almost magically actually, gets shorter and wider.  I'm convinced that t-shirts are designed to shrink this way so that consumers will constantly have to buy new shirts.  Bastards.

I hate the fact that adult clothing stores are geared towards two demographics: young people and older working stiffs.  I'm 36, so I'm definitely not young but I don't have one foot in the grave either.  So here's the dilemma: do I wear baggy pants around my ankles or do I wear navy tapered slacks?  Because it seems like there are no other options available to guys who fall somewhere in between.

I hate wearing clothes with logos on them.  If Nike or Reebok or Levi or any of the other corporate giants want me to wear their logo, they can pay me to do so, not the other way around.  Why should I be a walking billboard for these companies?  Instead of putting a stupid swirl or curvy line on the front, put more energy into making good quality clothes that fit well and don't shrink two sizes after the first wash.  I know, it's a radical idea.

Here's an idea for you budding entrepreneurs out there.  Start focusing on the thirty-something male demographic.  We have plenty of cash, not a whole lot of time, and we want clothes that don't make us look like a mouth-breathing punk or a golf-swinging retiree.  We just want clothes that accentuate what we got and hide the developing beer gut and man-boobs.  And we really don't mind spending a little extra to get what we want.  Most importantly, hire lots of gay guys.  Gay guys know fashion.  Okay, so here's how the store works.  Thirty-something year old guy walks into the store.  Gay store worker approaches customer, gets an idea as to what he's looking for, and makes some suggestions.  Finding something to fit isn't a problem, because the store carries everything.  And if they don't have your fit, they can special order it in at no extra charge.  Customer tries on clothes, gay worker offers honest opinion, and the cycle repeats itself until the customer is happy.  Hmmm, a store that offers age-appropriate variety, good quality and excellent customer service.  It's so crazy it just might work.

These pants fit perfectly in the store.

#4 Running out of Propane

Here's a scenario I know you can relate to:  It's a beautiful sunny day and you're finally home after a ridiculously long day at work.  The only thing that got you through the day was the anticipation of cracking open a cold one and throwing a slab of meat on the 'cue (que?  Q?  pick one).  In one fluid motion you swing open the refrigerator, grab a beer and head out to the patio.  You open up the lid of your barbecue, turn on the propane, and, bypassing the long-dead ignitor button, you throw in some lit matches, dodging the ensuing mushroom cloud.  You close the lid, head back in for another beer, and wait a couple of minutes for the heat to incinerate the accumulated biohazardous waste.  Like our woolly mammoth-hunting ancestors, you triumphantly toss your force-fed, hormone-injected, antibiotic-laced meat on the grill, close the lid, and let the magic of fire do its work.

After a few minutes, you return to check on your kill but as you approach you know something is wrong.  That delicious sizzling is absent, as is the smell of charring muscle tissue.  Hmm, the temperature gauge has also dropped.  You already know what has happened, but lifting the lid confirms your worst nightmare: the fire is out.  And trying to relight it is useless, since you ran out of propane.

Now what the hell are you supposed to do?  Fry it?  Out of the question.  Steaks are grilled, not fried.  Period.  Get more propane?  This is known as grillus interuptus, and nothing ruins the moment more.  Eat it?  There's a fine line between rare and salmonella, and partially cooking one side only makes the bacteria angrier.  Ask your neighbour if you can finish grilling your steak on his or her barbecue?  Not a bad idea, but requires considerable balls, a sympathetic neighbour, and additional steaks and/or beer which you must offer to said neighbour.  Sadly, the only viable alternative is to concede defeat, and order a pizza.

This begs the question, why haven't propane tank manufacturers installed a mandatory fuel gauge on all tanks yet?  Is it that hard to do?  Or has no one in the industry thought of it?  Tell you what propane people, go ahead with my idea and run with it.  I only demand a 5% royalty fee in perpetuity for my intellectual property.  Maybe they don't exist because nobody would use it.  Think about it, there's something very elemental about cooking with fire in the outdoors.  It links us with our Cro-magnon ancestors.  They no doubt had periodic issues with their fire pits and this common annoyance connects us through the eons.  So while your steak withers away on your cooling barbecue, just remember that your distant ape-like grandparents sometimes struggled with lighting wet wood too.  And they were equally ticked off.

At least these lucky bastards got a fire going.

#3 Mealy Apples

I love red delicious apples.  There's nothing better than biting into a crisp, sweet apple and feeling the succulent juices fill your mouth with intense flavour.  I would eat several every day if not for the inch-thick coating of artificial wax and pesticide residue.  I think if I was sentenced to death I would ask for a red delicious apple as my final meal.  On second thought, I would eat a box of sodium bicarbonate to counteract the imminent lethal injection of potassium chloride.  If that didn't work at least I wouldn't have heartburn.  But I digress.

There is nothing more disappointing in this life than bringing one of those beautiful fruits to your lips and biting not into a crunchy state of bliss, but a soft, mushy state of pure rage.  There's no preparing yourself for it.  You pick up the apple, it feels firm in your hands, the peel is glistening, but underneath that deceitful exterior is a disgusting, brownish fibrous mess just waiting to invade your mouth with its dry, powdery texture.  As you bite into the apple you are initially shocked by the realization that this is not the comfortable old friend you expected to tantalize your taste buds.  This state of disbelief quickly turns into anger - anger towards the apple itself, the store you bought it from, the farmer who grew it, the scientists who genetically modified it.  You could throw away the apple at this point, but oh no, you continue to eat it out of pure spite.  You take bite after bite of the apple from hell, grimacing as you contemplate its boiled potato-like consistency.  At some point in the process, anger turns into depression, since you know deep down that each subsequent bite will taste worse than the last, even though you hope against hope that maybe there is a morsel of sweet crispness hidden somewhere near its stalk or base.

Eating one of these horrible apples completely ruins my day.  After I consume one of those damnations I like to keep the ball rolling by scheduling in a little root canal, followed by playing with my kids until one of them unwittingly kicks me in the crotch, and topping it all off by taking my wife out to a chick flick.  At the end of the day I can still say the worst thing that happened to me was eating a mealy apple.  It's all relative.

Mealy or not mealy?  Go ahead, take a bite.

#2 Crappy Drivers

Okay, so this is a no brainer.  Idiots behind the wheel annoy the hell out of all of us awesome drivers.  Actually, I debated whether or not to add this one since it's so commonplace and uninspired.  It's like saying that contracting head lice ticks you off.  However, I believe that further commentary is required to quantify what qualifies as a "crappy driver."

We've all had near-misses, but I don't think that necessarily makes you a crappy driver.  It just makes you a danger to other motorists.   I also don't think unsafe practices such as speeding and drunk driving make you a crappy driver, they just make you a moron and hopefully you will die in a fiery crash.  No, crappy drivers are the ones that consistently fail to obey the rules of the road, making driving a complete and utter pain for the rest of us. 

Now before you start nodding your head in agreement, you must ask yourself, "Am I a crappy driver?"  In fact, there is a good chance that you are indeed a crappy driver.  Consider the following driving habits:

1. Refusing to use your signal light, despite the fact that they have been mandatory on all vehicles since 1931.
2. Not maintaining a constant speed on the highway.  This is loads of fun for us drivers who use cruise control, and are forced to pull out to pass only to have you speed up to prevent us from doing so.
3. Failing to yield.  If a vehicle has its signal light on, frigging yield.  It won't kill you.
4. Not accelerating in the acceleration lane.  By the time you leave the acceleration lane, you should be travelling at the same speed as all other vehicles on the highway.  That's why it's called an acceleration lane.

If you have ever practiced any or all of the above driving habits, then you are indeed a crappy driver.  Stop immediately and give your car keys to one of us fantastic motorists.  And stay the hell off my road.

The blue arrows indicate the acceleration lane.  Accelerate, damnit.

#1 Non-Medical Personnel who Wear Scrubs

It really bothers me when I see people who are clearly not doctors or nurses wearing scrubs. Who do these people think they are? Do they really think they are fooling anybody? I mean, come on, would a doctor or nurse wake up one Saturday morning and think, "gee, maybe I'll wear my khaki shorts, sandals with white socks, and green scrub t-shirt today. That will totally get me laid." If you want people to think you're a doctor, buy yourself a beamer, memorize Gray's Anatomy (the book, not the show jackass), and wear an expensive suit, not scrubs. These wanna-be jerk offs probably get all confused when they watch ER because they don't know what "stat" means. The next time I see someone wearing scrubs in a non-hospital setting, I'm going to ask them a medical question, like "do these hemorrhoids look like grapes or vine tomatoes to you?" and if they hestitate for just one second I'm calling them out. So watch it.

None of these idiots are doctors.