Customer Service Reps Can't Afford to Be PC

As usual, I was making my bi-weekly call to Anthem Blue Cross when I was introduced to Daniel. Cozy in his call center in India, Daniel, otherwise known by his friends and family as Sanjeet, was on the other line. Seems like they can't get the simple things right, like my zip code. Because of that little brain fart, we have no insurance cards and haven't for months! So, I am asking nicely if I my address has been finally updated as promised two weeks ago. He tells me that he will put in a request for a new set of insurance cards. I tried to explain that they should have gone out since the only hold up was the zip code...which of course was causing the cards to go to Egypt and points beyond. Is the zip code updated? He repeats that he can send out new cards that I will receive in two weeks. Dude, are you fucking listening? It was at this point that I started to get stabby and kicked it into Queens-girl mode. As nicely as possible in that particular state, I explained yet again that my zip code was causing the card to be sent to the wrong location. I then went on to tell him that I had already put in the address change request with the good folks at Covered CA, the people who made the mistake in the first place, and they were to send that change to you people at Anthem. OK, I actually said that the request had gone through Jesus and the Pope and should be to them by now. It was at that moment I was talking to myself. That fucker hung up on me!

Am I to assume that using religious terms was somehow offensive to Sanjeet? My insurance cards had been sent to points unknown three times until I was the one who discovered, quite accidentally, that they had transposed two of the numbers of my zip code. One would think that I'd be slightly frustrated by now and could be permitted to use language befitting the situation at hand. Here I am, no insurance cards and three payments in, and you want me to be PC? How do you suppose I go to the doctor? Do you think Walgreens is going to be forgiving when I try to pick up another bottle of happy pills without my card? Come on, Sanjeet, cut a bitch a break! Customer service has the word service in its name...where's the service you claim to provide? Hanging up on me isn't helpful in the least. As a matter of fact, it makes me want to rip your liver out through your mouth. You are paid to talk to me. You are paid to listen to me. You are paid to put up with me and fix my goddamn problems!

Normally, I would have called back and asked for a supervisor. Any other day, I'd have had Daniel's ass in a sling and gotten something for free for my troubles. However, issue number one being that it's an insurance company and they have nothing to offer me for free left me a little empty. Which brings us to issue numero dos...having Daniel reprimanded for his bad behavior. Honestly, I hung up laughing so hard, I was sure tears were going to run down my leg. Something about being hung up on for saying Jesus and Pope struck me as hilarious! I couldn't stop laughing...my ass was in danger of falling off. Although if it had, you'd all know by the epic, newsworthy earthquake. Realize, I've been hung up on by customer service reps more times than I care to count. Each one of those other times, I've called back with a vengeance. But this time, oh this time was different. Religion was the deal-breaker and I couldn't be more overjoyed!

Daniel, Sanjeet, Asshole, whatever you are calling yourself today, thank you for the best laugh I've had in a very long time. It warms my heart to know that you are so hyper-sensitive, so fucking easy to offend, such a goddamn pussy, that I could cause you to hang up the phone after using only two harmless words. The power I wield in my mouth is immense. My words are like weapons. I feel so bad ass, so I thank you. Will I call back in another two weeks when my insurance cards aren't in the mail as promised? Yeah, sure, you betcha. Will I be as offensive...or more so? Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Welcome to my asylum, where even the cats have Anxiety Disorder.

Don't adjust your screen, you read that correctly. Previously I have regaled you with stories of my and my daughter's bit of crazy...our anxiety disorders. Our prescriptions, our nightmares. But yesterday, I was given the strangest diagnosis from a vet I had ever heard. Mary Jane has anxiety, the kind that needs meds! What the fresh fuck? Are you serious? We had taken her in because she was coughing like 2 pack a day smoker with emphysema. That croupy sound could be heard from anywhere in the house and it was time to find out why and how we could help the poor, Zaftig baby. So she's a little on the Rubenesque side? Beauty comes in all sizes, I've told you that before.

This poor cat not only has asthma, but she is anxious. Anxiety and asthma are a lethal combination. One begets the other...begets the other. Why not? Why not have a very human issue that exacerbates your illness? Well, if you live in MY house, you may as well just grab yourself a cup of mental illness and sit right down and join the family. Take your pick: bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, or maybe a little multiple personality to spice things up. This household prefers panic attacks, but all are welcome. Line forms to the right, be sure to have your diagnosis handy for inspection. We like to keep your paperwork on file, in case. We haven't had to restrain anyone since 1994, but better safe than sorry.

To me, this isn't a curse. NosireeBOB. I like to think of it as my little blessing in disguise. Dealing with the inmates here helps me to not kill you. As annoying as the rest of the occupants of planet Earth can be, and you all irritate the living shit out of me at some point in the day, you can rest easy knowing that I won't shank you all any time soon. Why? Because not only am I medicated, but I have vast experience dealing with crazy so you will always pale in comparison simply due to the fact that I don't have to live with you. There's always an escape from you. Feeling lucky? No? Perhaps that's wise, I AM nuts. My diagnosis is also on file.  I'm not only the owner, I'm also a client.

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Who here believes that...show of hands. Yeah, I doubted that bit of trite bullshit when I was but a young lass. Didn't quite understand the validity of it growing up in the house that I did. My version of it was, what doesn't kill you...means you live to see tomorrow, whatever the fuck that's gonna be. At the time, I didn't know there was a name for what sparked his episodes. Didn't know it could have been stopped. Had no clue that a simple pill could have changed my entire childhood. Back in those days, you didn't speak of such things. Mental illness was a taboo subject spoken about in whispers, like the word "cancer." And you certainly didn't tell anyone outside the house that bad things were happening inside it.

Maybe that's why I embrace my diagnosis like a well-worn, cozy blanket. Could be why I talk about it so much, why I can laugh about it and not feel embarrassed in the slightest. Hey, look at me, I take Zoloft! Woot! My kid takes Klonopin! Hooray! And now...my cat is on anti-anxiety meds, too! We is craaaaazy! And that's okay. We are no less than, no worse off, not one step below anyone else as a result. As a matter of fact, I believe we possess just a bit more awesome because we DO know our flaws, we HAVE addressed them, and still function like everyone else. Those who still, in this day and age, try to ignore what's staring them in the face, sweeping it under the rug because it causes them shame and disappointment...they are the ones who are screwed up as fuck. They are the crazy ones. You aren't doing yourself, your child, your husband or wife any favors by pretending they are normal. Normal...what a fucktarded word. What is normal, anyway?

What have we learned here? Admitting you have a problem is the first step. Mental illness affects everyone. And my house can officially be called an institution. Be not afraid, I go before you always, come follow me, and I will give you drugs. OK, maybe that isn't how that song goes, but it suited my purposes. Remember, knowledge is power and drugs are your friend. Embrace your crazy like it's a long lost friend. Unless you want to be fitted for one of those fabulous, white "hug myself" jackets with the big, shiny buckles. I know I don't. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Being a Potential Juror Sucks the Big One: Part Two

Jumping right back in, the following Tuesday arrives and I have been prepping for this moment. Go ahead, call me in, ask me anything. I'm fucking ready. Once again, I park in Ten Hour Meter Bumble Fuck, and make my way to the courthouse. Yanking off my belt as I approach the security area and plopping all my possible alarm-worthy shit on the counter, I walk through the metal detector smiling. Ha. Beat that shit. Shoving my belt back into my loops and heading towards the stairway to the second floor, I begin to panic. What if I do get picked? What if I am stuck on this jury, listening to the spewing of bullshit from that piece of dog turd and his equally greasy lawyer? What if I have to be there all fucking summer? This does not work for me in any way. This cannot happen.

Oh look, there are all the men, sitting pretty on the benches. Please, allow me to prostrate myself at your feet and sit upon the dirty carpet again. Thank you for the honor, dickhead. Parking my ass, I look around at the crowd, assessing them for their possible competency. Yeah, they are all WAY more suited for jury duty than I. At least that is what I am telling myself to keep from vomiting. Check it out, Miss Crunchy Nuts is here...excellent. Great. Thank the baby Jesus she is not sitting anywhere near me today. Fuck, they are calling names, here goes. Nope, it's for the other trial, whatever the fuck that one is. I'm sure that's a week long case about some petty theft. That's why I'm not in that group. And so we sit, and sit, and sit. Finally, Andrew, I call him that because that's how the judge refers to him, comes out and starts calling us to come in. First, the numbered jurors who are to be questioned, then the rest of the poor saps who have to sit and listen.

In case I haven't made it clear, I did get a number. Number 20, that was me. We file into the court room and take our assigned seats. Mine being next to a guy who couldn't stop talking to me. His running commentary was making want to jam a pen into my ear canal. Today, the judge was going to ask us a variety of questions based on the things she read in our voir dire questionnaire. Cool, have at it, baby. My answers are gonna be golden! As she makes her way through the jurors, the stories I am hearing are priceless. "My step sister from my mom's previous marriage, once-removed, who I've only met five years ago, was fondled by her step uncle on her father's side when she was eight...that was 40 years ago. I'm not sure I can be fair." "Do you have a relationship with this woman now?" "No, I haven't seen her since we met five years ago." Really? I can see how the intensity of this issue coupled with your very close and lengthy relationship with her would make this trial challenging for you.

Another schmuck tries to sell a similar line of shit, the "I have a distant relative that I don't speak to who accused another distant relative of some kind of touchy-feely 85 years ago, so I shouldn't be here." Right. And I am Jesus come down off the cross. Shut the fuck up, ass head. Oh, this is a good one, "I have a conference to attend where I've been invited to speak and it's been two years of hard work for me. I won't get the grant money that I've already laid out for the trip if I don't go." Um, ok. So, your job is more important than everyone else's sitting here? Or is it your inflated sense of amazing that causes you to believe it so? By the way, that was Miss Crunchy Nuts. Sorry, Crunch, keep on sitting there. "My daughter needs to be driven to work and I am the only one who can do it. There is no public transportation where we live and her job is far." Your daughter chose a job that she could not get to on her own and now it's MY problem? Eat my ass.

Yay! It's my turn. "So, Ms. Fiore, do you have any prior knowledge about this case from any form of media?" "I do." "From which form?" "The news." "Do you think you can still be fair if we imposed upon you?" "No, I do not." "One more question, Ms. Fiore, in the matter regarding your mother, do you feel it was handled fairly?" "I most certainly do NOT." "Thank you for your honesty." Well, that should do it. I'm feeling pretty good at this point. Almost superhuman. The judge thanks us all and sends us on our lunch break. A break from the action, quite nice, but extended because a bunch of the potentials decided to pass notes to the judge which then had to be discussed at length in chambers. Thanks, assholes. I guess they didn't realize they'd be affecting ALL of us with their invented excuses for why they couldn't possibly serve. We return after having to wait in the corridor yet again, only to have these notes addressed, one by one, painfully. After the notes were rendered useless to these boobs, the judge hands us over to the prosecuting attorney.

Very nice guy, amiable, funny, personable. But he wants a jury. I could be someone he wants, badly. I'd be a dream for his side. He goes around the room, asking, joking, getting more ridiculous answers and stories. The same lady who has the inept daughter now admits that she hardly understands English. That's a legitimate impediment. "How long have you been in this country, ma'am?" "Twenty years." OK, there's a line and you just jumped right the fuck over it, lady. You cannot be here that long and barely speak English. How the fuck do you survive speaking only Tagalog? This ain't the Philippines, honey. Yet, you may be excused because you're an idiot who refuses to learn the language of the country that provides you a lovely life. Nice.

Did I mention the attorney's name was Mr. Butts? Very unfortunate. Mr. Butts gets up to me and says he isn't going to ask me anything because I've made my stance very clear. Well, ALRIGHTY!!!!! That is what I wanted to hear. He moves on to Blabber Boy and whoops, we are done for today because we've run out of time. What does this mean? You guessed it, we get to come back tomorrow! Fabulous. These are three days I won't ever get back. Thanks, jurors 1-19 and 21 for making sure we couldn't possibly have finished today by sharing all of your sob stories. Driving home, I think about tomorrow and wonder what the greasy defense attorney could ask me and begin planning my answers. He isn't ready for me...he's never met someone with no filter in a court room! Wait for it, Clancy, I'm coming at you.

Fast forward, it's Wednesday, and I am back at the court house, sitting on the goddamn floor AGAIN. This time I am dreaming of ways to castrate the men in the benches. My kindle and I are connected at the eyeball and I am just waiting to hear Andrew call us in. Lost in my trashy novel, the sound of "Department 4"rings through the corridor and I am jostled into reality. Fuck. It's that time again. We stand up and file into the court room and take our now familiar seats. Judge O'Malley talks to us about today's portion of the program. Oh just bring it on already. For this segment of jury selection, we are going to be questioned by the defense attorney, Mr. Sleazebag. He bumbles up to the podium on wheels, spreads out his stapled-together file folders covered in Post-It notes, and starts talking to us like we are old friends. I think not, fucker.

Mr. S tries to make jokes but they fall as flat as his comb-over. Nobody wants to hear his stand-up routine on day three. Get to the fucking point. He decides to shake things up and go backwards up the juror list starting with number 21. Great, that means I go second. Then it occurs to me, he should gird his loins. I'm a force to reckoned with, bitch. He asks us all the same question, "After reading the paragraph on the first page of your questionnaire, and seeing 150 counts, 14 children, and a teacher, what was your gut reaction?" Excellent. Here's my chance to draw blood. After Mr. #20, he turns to me and asks the question. My response, "I was disgusted and repulsed. This kind of behavior is absolutely unacceptable in any setting but to be perpetrated by a teacher is reprehensible. As a fellow teacher, I am furious with his actions and treatment of children. We are trained to behave a certain way. That is not what we do, it is not how we are trained, it is inappropriate, and illegal. This man is evil in my eyes and there are boundaries when dealing with children and he crossed all of them."  "So, based on that, will you be able to sit through the testimony and be fair?" "No way!" The judge chuckled and said, "He did ask for total honesty." Mr. S thanked me and moved on.

Now if you think my response was classic, you haven't heard anything yet. One woman began tearfully explaining that since "I can't have children, I am very sensitive to children.*SNNIIIFFFF*. I just don't think I can, *SOB* sit and listen to the testimonies of all those children. *Blows nose and wipes eyes* I'm not sure I could be fair given my situation. *SNIFF, SOB* Lord, holy, baby Jesus H Christ on a Ritz cracker, lady, are you fucking serious??? You don't have kids, yet this is more traumatic to you than, let's say, the rest of us who DO? Damn. And just when I thought she was the most ridiculous woman on the entire planet and I was cursed to be in the same room with her, Mr. S. gets to Mrs. Chem Instructor. To clarify, she's Ms. Crunchy Nuts and also the one who had the conference, making her very important. Well, when asked the very same question we were all asked, and then asked if her anxiety was going to cause an issue, her face dropped. Hey, you gave the note to the bailiff, you wanted it addressed, here it is, dipwad. As her chin began to quiver, she broke out into tears as she choked out the words, "It would be, be , be very difficult for me because *SNIFF* my husband and I talk about everything and *SOB, SOB, SNIFFFF* we discuss our entire day with each other, and I wouldn't be able to tell him about, about, thiiiissss. It would be so hard *SOB* to hold this back from hiiiimmmm." "Would you tell us if you needed a break if you felt you needed one, if you felt anxious?" "Yes, yes I would." Awww, you poor wittle baby girl. You has anxiety disorder? Which means what? Oh, I know, I know. You have a prescription for something that helps abate that feeling before it even starts. I do. Pop a fucking happy pill and suck it up, Buttercup!

Everyone had been questioned and we were all looking around at each other, wondering what was next? Would they make us come back tomorrow? Will we find out today if we've been excused? The judge tells us that she needs to confer with the attorneys in chambers and we should wait for their return. Sure, why not. We all start chatting among ourselves and my seat buddy tells me that he knows there is no way I'm going to be picked. I laugh and tell him that I'd be a dream for the prosecution and a nightmare for the defense. The three stooges return to the court room, the judge sits down and begins to tell us that several of us are being excused for cause. Translation, you people are the worst candidates for this trial, EVER. She starts calling names as I sit impatiently, tapping my toes on the floor. Finally, number six, the last juror released of duty is, you know it....ME. We are asked to go to the jury office and turn in our release slips with our badges. I've never run down a flight of stairs so fast. I'm not even sure my feet touched each step. We wait in line, hand them in, and walk out together, incredulous. One of the older jurors turns to me and says, "This is it?" I look at him and say, with utter glee, "We are done!" Did you think this would end any differently? Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Being a Potential Juror Sucks the Big One: Part 1

When I got my summons in the mail, my heart dropped into my lavender toenailed feet. The horror and sense of dread that filled my soul was almost visible to my family as I opened the envelope and saw that I had, indeed, been summoned to serve on a jury. Oh. My. God. The last time I had seen one of those evil pieces of tan paper, my daughter was an infant and I had an airtight excuse not to serve. Almost 19 years later, I've got nothing! No excuse, no legitimate reason, Jack Squat. There was nothing preventing me from having to show up on June 9th, 2014, barring death or natural disaster. Fuck me sideways, I had to show up.

The night before, I did my civic duty and called the number they demanded I dial to find out if I actually had to be present the next morning. Of course I did. Was I imagining any different? Bad luck being my middle name, I knew that I was going to hear that awful recorded voice telling me to show up at 9am. Sure as shit, I did. Working myself into a lather, I mentally prepared myself for the inevitable...being selected. Going through all the potential reasons why I would be the worst possible candidate, I began the process of coming up with all kinds of non-PC answers to questions I imagined they would ask me. "Yes, I'm a racist." "All Mexicans are illegal." "People who live in trailer parks always steal and do drugs." What did I know?

Monday rolls around and I get myself prepared to head out the door, grabbing a bag filled with quarters to stuff into the ten hour meter they provide three blocks from the courthouse for all of us poor suckers doomed to be there and making sure my Kindle was charged so I could have reading material for the waiting period. Driving there, I am freaking out. What if I get picked? What if I have to serve? What if I can't get out of this??? Park the car and begin the walk to the courthouse. UGH. I arrive and find a long line of other sad sacks waiting to find out their upcoming fate. As I approach the door, I see what looks like airport security. They take my purse, my phone, and my keys, then demand I remove my belt. WTF? My pants will be around my ankles, but okay, here ya go asshole.

I make my way to the Jury Assembly room and stand on another long assed line. Only this time, I notice that there are six old school fans blowing and no AC! This was a hot fucking day to begin with, now I was stuffed into a room with 200+ people and no air conditioning. Fabulous. The lady at the desk takes my summons, gives me my juror badge and a questionnaire and instructs me to fill it out, place it in the filing thingy, and wait to hear my name. I sit down and fill out the stupid paperwork and shove it into the archaic filing system and sit back down. Pop open the Kindle and try to kill time. Except time was killing me. I was sweating so profusely that my hair was dripping wet. I piled it on top of my head in a ridiculous but functional ponytail and go back to reading.

Forced to sit through an old lady give a speech about why we were so lucky to be summoned to the fine city of Martinez to serve as jurors and then, my personal favorite, a video about how fortunate we are to be able to serve on a jury and that it is the best thing since sliced bread, I start to lose my mind. How long have I been sitting there? Oh, long enough to be excused for lunch! I meander my way through the streets of a very cute downtown, I must admit, and find a Mickey D's to get me a salad so I don't pass out from starvation. Well, I had no idea how long this was going to take. I take it to go so I can go refill the meter. I fill the meter, fill my belly, and head to Starbucks. A venti vanilla macchiato with an extra shot, please. I chug that bad boy in record time and head back to the courthouse to hear my fate.

Sit and wait, sit and wait. They call one group after the other, just not mine. Fine, fuck you, see if I care. I've got my Kindle. Holy shit, was that my name you just called? Oh fuckity fuck. We file out into the hallway and are told to head upstairs to Department 4. Oh, did you think I went directly into the courtroom? Nope, we were told to wait in the corridor and our names would be called. Naturally all the men sat on the limited number of benches provided for us and I wound up seated on the dirty carpeted floor. Thanks, gentlemen, I didn't want a real seat. Dickless schmucks! Reading until my eyes got so heavy I feared I would fall asleep on that disgusting floor, I found myself next to a woman who brought, of all things, nuts. Yes, nuts. She crunched and cracked and chomped away 6 inches from me. Are you serious, lady? I thought for sure I'd be next defendant needing a jury in about 3 minutes.

Shoving my mind back into the trashy novel I was reading I attempt to tune her out. Until she started counting on her fingers. Really?!?! You are a grown ass woman, dressed fairly nicely, and you are counting on your fingers. Stifling a laugh, I look away before my mouth betrays my common sense and I blurt out something insulting. Thinking if she's my competition, I am definitely getting selected, dread fills my gut. Just as I force myself to calm down, I hear my name called. Time to line up and meet the judge. We file into the courtroom and take our seats. Ahhh, a real chair with cushions. So far, painless. The judge goes over the rules, the nature of the case, and informs us that this particular trial will last until August 15th. Are you out of your fucking mind? That's all summer!

Let me tell you something, there was no way in hell I was serving on this panel. No fucking way. Not just because it was almost two months long, although that was a major deterrent. After hearing the nature of the case, I was done. The kind of done where you want to shank the defendant in the throat and slice his balls off with a rusty butter knife. This rotten piece of shit, this pathetic excuse for a human being, this slimy motherfucker was accused of lewd and lascivious acts against children...and he is a teacher. I'm sure you must know my stance on this by now. As a teacher and a parent of a girl, I was furious. So furious I couldn't see straight. You want me to sit on this jury and be fair? Did he consider what was fair to these children? Nope, I can't do it.

The judge asks us if we have any real impediments to serving on the jury. Does hating child molesters count? Of course not. I would have had to be a caretaker to someone elderly, an infant, have no means of transport to court, or be unable to pay my mortgage if I served. Shit, shit, shit. I have no fucking excuse! Oh, this is it. I'm getting picked. They tell us to go down to the jury office and get yet another questionnaire and fill it out in the jury assembly room and then hand it in. Sure, I got this. Maybe the questionnaire will have a disqualifying question and I'll get booted. Maybe I'll ride a unicorn home while rainbows shoot out of my ass. These questions appear to be totally in my favor. There's no way, no fucking way they will want me. I fill that bitch out with complete honesty and walk it over to the jury office. Handing it in with confidence that I'm so out, and then being handed a slip of paper that instructs me to appear the following Tuesday for jury selection knocks the wind out of my sails in the blink of an eye.

The ride home was miserable. Running through my mind, haunting me, was the sheer volume of the charges being levied against this cocksucker and how I was going to have to listen to the testimonies of children...children and maintain my composure and be FAIR. How the hell can someone be fair in light of those kind of offenses? Me, of all people, Judgmental Jesus? Are you friggin kidding me right now???

This Stuff Really Bugs Me...and I Know It Shouldn't

You'd think at my age, I'd be able to tune most of life's little annoyances out. Wrong! As I get older, I truly believe that I am noticing more and more things that I cannot stand to see, hear, or be around. There are actually things that can drive me to distraction causing me to focus on nothing else. Maybe it's a wee bit OCD, perhaps peppered with a touch of misophonia (read Do Not Smack Your Food Anywhere Near Me), and possibly a touch of holier-than-thou. Regardless of the source, I have become almost completely intolerant of certain traits that most of you don't even notice. So, while you are happily going about the business of your day, I am gritting my teeth and trying not to stab half the people in my proximity. Even Zoloft isn't enough to stop the stabby feelings that course through my veins on any given day.

Let's start with toe thumbs. Oh, you know exactly what I am talking about. Don't pretend that you don't. Those horrific-looking fucking appendages that do not, under any circumstances, belong on a hand. Our baseball season tickets have me sitting right next to a perfectly lovely woman and her husband. Perfectly lovely until I look down and to my right and see those things...those bulbous, freak-like, blobs at the end of her thumbs. My skin begins to crawl and I get physically ill looking at them. I have a hard time the rest of the game NOT looking at them. Why? Because I am human and will poke at the sore tooth until I feel soothed by the action. Because everyone loves a train wreck. Because I am an asshole. I will keep looking over, getting progressively more paralyzed by her defect. Something over which she has no control. Sure, that makes me a terrible person. I never told you I was Mother Teresa.

Moving forward to bottom teeth talkers. Not necessarily the chin-jutting, wealthy snob bottom teeth talkers. Just those people who refuse to lift their upper lip enough for us to see that they even have top teeth. Why does this bother me? No fucking clue. But, Christ on a crutch, it does. These bipedal bulldogs drive me insane. Where the hell did they learn how to speak, an animal shelter? While I am perfectly aware that the bottom jaw does all the movement for speech, there's no reason whatsoever to only showcase the bottom row of teeth. They are generally your uglier teeth. Don't believe me? Go look in the mirror. Look first at just your top teeth. Okay. Now cover them with your upper lip and look at just those lower choppers. Scared the shit out of yourself, didn't you? They are friggin uglier than a bag of assholes, and I'm being kind. All I'm asking you to do is work on it. Sit in front of a mirror and practice, see a speech therapist, don't talk to me...do something. It grates on me like fingernails on a blackboard and I will walk away from you if you try to engage me. Give it a try, see what happens.

People who breathe like they are dying when they drink kill me. This is usually more prevalent in the bottled water drinkers. For some reason, those folks like to drink like they just crawled across the desert in a parka and are thoroughly dehydrated. Glug, glug, glug...that I get, if you are really thirsty. But that sound, the sound babies make when they drink because they actually can breathe while they suck, where it sounds like something like a cross between a loud exhale and a grunt...yeah, on an adult sounds more like an animal in the wild. Slow the fuck down. Most people drink bottled water at their place of work, in the supermarket, in public. If you are at the gym and do this, I have a much higher threshold for the sound provided it isn't extended for an eternity. All other times, it becomes unacceptable and is just as bad as those of you who haven't the manners nor good sense to to chew with your mouths closed. Nobody wants to hear you eat or drink. Ever. Drink in sips. Even large ones are fine. Nobody is chasing you...except maybe me with a baseball bat, ready to plow the head off of your shoulders when you drink like that.

Up talk. Never heard of it? Guess you don't live on the Left Coast. There's been a lot of research and discussion about the spread of this manner of speech. If you haven't heard it, consider yourself lucky. Let me demonstrate for you? It's the kind of speech? Where you end every sentence with a question? Mostly done by women? But some men are guilty as well? Are you irritated yet? Looks completely fucktarded in the typed form, in the spoken form it makes you sound like a fucking idiot. I often ask when spoken to this way, "Are you asking or telling?" If you are telling me something, I want to hear the period. How can you be constantly unsure of yourself? Can you be that dumb? Is it possible? Speak with confidence or shut the fuck up. Why bother having a conversation if you haven't a clue if anything out of your mouth is true? If you doubt it, why should I believe it? Get a grip, grow a pair, and speak like you mean it.

These are just a few things that drive me out of my fucking mind. There are so many more and I simply don't have the time today to share them with you. If you are one of these people, if you see yourself in any of these descriptions and you can fix the problem, do it. Do it soon, do it now, do it long before you come into contact with me. I may not comment on your physical abnormality but the moronic behavior is completely subject to my barbed tongue. Doubt me? Don't think I'll say anything? Are you friggin kidding me right now???