People Who Need to Get Punched in the Head

I’m in a venting mood and I don’t care who I piss off today, so here’s a list of people who, at the very least, need to get punched in the head:

1.) The guy on the side of the road who waits until you’re almost on top of him before he starts crossing the street, thus forcing you to slam on your brakes. That lame brained move alone deserves a jab or two to the cranium. God help him if, after your brake pads are toast, he then decides he wants to move with the speed of a tortoise with a cement shell, all the while gawking at you as if your very existence is somehow shocking to him. At this point, you know he’s just trying to be an asshole, but he’s an asshole with a false sense of entitlement who may one day try that sh*t with someone who doesn’t give a rat’s ass if this clown makes it from Point A to B or if he becomes a f**king hood ornament.

2.) The woman who, as she is about to get into her car, clearly sees that you have your turn signal on and are waiting for that spot, yet still takes like 45 minutes to get her sh*t together before she can pull out of her parking space. With people like that, I just wanna open up her door, smack her upside the head, tell her to get her ass in gear and stop wasting minutes of my life while she tries shining sh*t by applying make-up to her horrendous face.

3.) I’d reserve my next skull punch for any parent who becomes indignant and outraged when a teacher tells him that his kid is less than a model student, instead of addressing the ever so slight possibility that this could be a parenting problem. I once read a story about a preschool kid who couldn’t get through the day without biting all of her fellow preschoolers. After several unsuccessful attempts by teachers to curb her behavior, the teachers decided to call the parents in. Upon hearing this news, not only did the parents pull their girl out of the school, they sued the preschool! Because clearly, their daughter’s Cujo-like behavior had to have been the teachers’ fault. Twenty bucks says that when this girl gets home from school, she’s probably thrown into a cage with one of those ball-bearing water dispenser thingies that hamsters lick when they’re thirsty. But nope! They sued the school. Alrighty then. Anything it takes to avoid coming to grips with the fact that they’re sh*tty parents, I suppose.

4.) The person (usually female) who rats out a minimum wage-earning schlub to his or her manager after receiving less than exemplary service needs to have a face-to-fist meeting with me immediately if not sooner. The poor bastard’s behind a register (or deli counter), or perhaps waiting tables in a greasy-spoon, making like four dollars an hour. Isn’t his existence sad enough without you making it worse? Did you ever think for one minute that maybe this is the best job he’s capable of attaining at this time in his life and that perhaps, his job ain’t all smiles and lollipops? If you have that much of a problem with the service, don’t go tattling to his manager! Apply for a job! His job! Work right alongside of him…. and show him what being employee of the month is all about. Otherwise, shut the f**k up.

5.) The host of pretty much every moderately upscale restaurant I’ve ever been to who always seems to be a guy and always seems to have a princess fairy lisp going on. If you insist on having your midnight romps with Cecil the Wonder Schlong plowing your ass like Interstate 95 after a blizzard, that’s your business. But when you’re speaking to regular ol’, “I don’t exist just to piss my parents off” people, leave the lisp on the night stand next to the body glitter and the KY. In other words, talk like a man.

6.) I’ve got a special edition uppercut reserved for this next group: The couple who just can’t figure out how to get to a movie or a sporting event on-time, so they arrive after the game has started and wind up walking all over you to get to their seats. If you’re like me, you do that “hover slightly over your seat” maneuver which gives these late arrivals all of about three centimeters more room so that when they still manage to step all over you and slam their asses in your face, you wind up just plopping back down on your seat in disgust. Plus, no matter how much room you try to give them, they still take like three minutes to get through, all the while blocking your view and pissing you off. This is usually the same group of ass-wads who either can’t get enough of the vendors’ fourteen dollar beers or did get enough and now need to use the bathroom every five minutes, which means playing the “grind up on my f**king knees” tango each and every damn time they have to leave or return to their seats.

7.) Next on my sh*t list, the driver who sees that my turn signal is on and that I’m trying to get into his lane, yet insists on driving just close enough so that if I tried to cut in, I’d get clipped. This is usually the same asshole who, when I finally do manage to squeeze in after I’ve had my turn signal on for an hour, is lightning quick to beep his horn. Too bad he wasn’t nearly as quick at being courteous. Prick. I think it’d take more than one punch in the head to even that score.

8.) Anybody who’s pulling disability because they’re “depressed” doesn’t only need a good punch in the head. They need an education on just what it means to have a depressing life. For example, if you find yourself alone in your car, crying into your hands, punching the steering wheel and screaming at the rain, you’re not depressed – you’re just stupid… and you’ve got nothing to be depressed about.

Why? Because you have a steering wheel to punch and rain to scream at.

Try spending some time in a country where tanks and guns take precedence over food and water and the natives’ idea of a refreshing drink is licking moderately moist sand because the climate’s too damn dry for rain to exist. While you’re at it, hang out with a few emaciated kids and fly-ridden goats as you hunt for scorpions to eat because that’s all there f**king is. Then return to your “depressing” life back home and voilà - you’re f**king cured! It’s a hell of a lot cheaper than pumping thousands of dollars’ worth of meds into you while a heavily overpaid psychiatrist lies your moronic ass on a couch to discuss your “feelings” and how much your parents messed you up.

Cry me a river, numbnuts!

Nobody who gets to collect monthly checks for doing nothing all day but sit at home, knocking back bon-bons and watching Jerry Springer qualifies as a candidate for depression as far as I’m concerned. So, get up off your ass and get a job. I’ll sleep better knowing that my tax dollars are being used to fix f**ked up roads as opposed to your scarred psyche.

9.) And speaking of permanently scarring your children, if you’re a grandmother and you’re still in your forties, you have absolutely no business giving me tips on how to be a mature, responsible parent. Because for you to have attained grandmother status in your forties, it either means that you got knocked up way too young or worse – you raised a f**ked kid who got knocked up or did the knocking up way too young. Either way, it doesn’t bode well for you, so keep your mouth shut if you’re not particularly fond of angry thumps to the skull. And do NOT tell me that you don’t have any control over what your children do unless you’re prepared to punctuate that sentence with “…because I suck as a parent and never bothered to even try and instill him/her with a moral compass when I had the chance.”

Good parenting is like building a house. If you build a shoddy foundation, the house has no chance of standing on its own. If you build a solid foundation, but don’t stick around to oversee construction of the house, odds are the house’ll get f**ked up along the way and you’ll wind up needing to flick a light switch if you wanna flush the toilet. A good parent is someone who works hard to build that solid foundation, then oversees construction of the house, giving advice when needed. My wife and I have every intention on raising our daughter in the word of God and making sure that, by the time she’s old enough to choose her own path in life, she’ll make the right choices. In the meantime, if you can boast of holding a grandchild before your child can boast of holding a high school diploma, keep your pearls of wisdom to yourself. Because going to you for parenting advice would be like something that sucks asking something else that sucks about how not to suck.

And since I’m not really pissed off at anybody else today, I’ll just reread my blog about The Quiet Car, think about Window Bitch and envision her on the business end of that tenth punch.