Get Off My Lawn

by I hate everything

Any person above the age of say, six, who spouts the term millennial needs to see a doctor. Hopefully they can get the oxygen flow restored to their brain and continue functioning if they end up getting help. But frankly, most are the social media ninjas that have double-jointed their arms to pat themselves on the back so much you’d think they’re giving themselves reach-arounds the wrong way full time these days.

‘Millennial’ is the adjective form of ‘millennium’, which as most people who’ve managed to pass elementary school should now know stands for one thousand years (that’s a one followed by three zeros, or, 1000 years). If you’re referring to a millennial person, then, you’re referring to someone who’s managed to live from before 1012 at this point. They’ve lived through the rise and fall of the Eastern Roman Empire and are still alive and kicking. Frankly I’m not sure why they’re even using the internet and working, they should have invested a little more wisely in their 200′s perhaps in order to avoid such things.

If you’re the mouth-breathing sort that enjoys saying shit like “This will appeal to the millennial crowd”, get off my lawn, before my decadial ass goes medieval on yours.

by myerman

Attention all of you people who participate in planking: you’re not that funny. Or clever. Or postmodernist. Or whatever you think while you’re doing it.

Don’t know what planking is? Oh, you lucky sonofabitch. Here, let me infect your mind. Plankers are those people who lie face down in unusual places (for example, a railing on a balcony that’s say, 100 feet off the ground) and then have photos of themselves posted on the interwebs. Of course, it’s always better if you survive the ordeal, which Acton Beale of Australia neglected to do. Survive, I mean.

Apparently if you get really drunk and do this kind of stuff, you end up dying and/or maiming yourself. Ditto if you find yourself in a “competitive planking” environment  (I fucking CAN NOT believe that those words just rattled themselves onto this blog) — I guess there are some ineffable rules of free-market planking, pushing plankers to bigger and bigger risks to get the most extreme, err, face-down posture or something.

You’d think these people would do something useful, like plank in front of public buildings or the train station so I’d have some place to park my bike, but alas, no.

I won’t include any “traditional” images of plankers, there are plenty of those in the story linked above, or you can google “planking” to get the general idea. Essentially, it’s a bunch of bored people sharing their “hobby” with a bunch of other people who have the attention span of a stunned fly. Wait, I just categorized 90% of humanity on the Internet.

However, there is one extremely hilarious animated GIF of a planker doing it wrong, and I share it with you only because I myself cannot stop watching it and laughing my ass off.

by myerman

Yes, you, twentysomething chick in the Toyota, I’m talking to you and your entire sisterhood. Don’t give me that look when I honk at you, you little bitch, you’re the one who is backing up the entire road because you’re slapping on makeup when the light turned green.

Listen, I get it, somehow it’s not your responsibility to stop partying at 4am so you can get more than 3 hours sleep, and it’s somehow not your problem that you kept hitting the snooze button so you only had time for a quick shower and now you’re making up time right here in front of me.

You gotta look good at the office, even though you’re gonna fuel the whole day with Red Bull. No sense walking in like the reanimated dead, very bad for you I guess, so instead of putting on makeup at your house or in the parking lot of your job, you do it here, while flying down the road at excessive speed. Thanks.

Yes, yes, I’m impressed you can steer with your knees while applying lipstick. I hope it’s a hydrating lipstick, you probably dried everything out with all the partying last night. I get it, hey, I’m not a bad guy, I never said don’t take care of yourself.

I swear, one day I’m going to get run down by a 25-year-old idiot applying mascara instead of watching the fucking road. I’ve got my tombstone ready.

by LJ

While working the front door security of a department store, I saw a couple walk up with their 6 year old daughter in a stroller. The couple asked me where the Starbucks was because their daughter needed her coffee.

Now this child looked like she was being groomed for a beauty pageant; her mother looked like she only wanted the best for herself. So after informing them we had no Starbucks inside the store but had a generic coffee cart out front, they soon returned and the child had a coffee in hand.

The mother immediately handed the stroller to the father while she rushed to the jewelry counter,like she could fit anymore gold on her body.While waiting for Mommy, Dad looked bored and daughter proceeded to get her lipstick (yes lipstick!) from her little purse to primp.

She soon became bored and started yelling at Dad. When he asked her very nicely to please quiet down she hauled off and smacked the hell out of him right across the face–and he just shut up and left her alone! Now what I saw was parents who are grooming a child to be hugely let down by the world when she discovers the Earth doesn’t really revolve around her.

Every grey hair and wrinkle they get from this child is exactly what they deserve. Unfortunately, now we’ll have to deal with her as well.

by noahvail

An overdressed, handsome dad with movie-star hair plays with his two-year-old son. But he doesn’t just play. It’s like he’s competing on a reality show in which the most “engaged” father wins a million bucks. He’s hiding behind bushes and then leaping out and growling like a tiger. He’s climbing trees—while holding his kid. He’s generally making an ass of himself—which I’m fine with, generally—except he’s acting like he and his child are completely alone at the playground, and yet he so clearly wants attention from all the inferior dads around him. He wants us all to bow down and marvel at his sense of childlike wonder; his sustained high energy; his devotion to parenthood. Meanwhile, his young wife follows 10 paces behind, a practiced grin affixed to her pretty face, like, “I do this every day, asshole.”

I got news for you, dude. You gotta pace yourself. Play with your kid, but also give him room to explore and meet other kids. Hang back with the other moms and dads—we don’t bite—and see what your kid can do on his own. If you keep trying so hard you’re gonna burn out—I already see the strain on your wife’s face. My guess is, when no one’s looking, you’re not nearly so “engaged.” After parachuting in for 25 minutes of high-impact daddy-time, you probably retreat to your man-cave where your wife brings you beer and no kids are allowed. (Nice going! Uh, I mean, that’s wrong!) This is not a recipe for long-term success. I give it three years, max, before you leave your family, move to Dallas or Phoenix or L.A., and start the process over with a new, even younger trophy wife. So chill, dude. Show your kid how to do laundry or wash the car or operate your BlackBerry (I just know you’re a BlackBerry person). It’s the steady trickle of small moments that matters most. Not the “I Am the King of Awesome Dads” show, which airs only a few Saturdays a year.

by noahvail

It’s fun to complain about today’s overprotective parents and the generation of helpless, entitled morons they are raising. But the fact is there are many more parents who just don’t give a shit. I’m talking about parents who do the bare minimum to keep their kids out of protective services. Parents who, while not overtly abusive, are neglectful as hell.

For example:

Scene: A crowded public pool. I’m at the kiddie pool with my daughter on a hot summer day. It’s elbow-to-elbow. The big kids are splashing and being rowdy so I’m holding my young daughter close. I hear commotion behind me and turn to see a bunch of kids pointing at a toddler boy in a Spider-Man life jacket a couple yards away. He walked out too deep. The jacket keeps him afloat, barely, with his mouth and nose just above the surface of the water. He’s too scared to move; he’s making sputtering noises while his eyes roll wildly. I’m the closest adult, so I lurch over and scoop him up with my free arm and carry him to the edge of the pool. His mother, wearing street clothes and completely dry, lifts him by one arm and throws him back in the pool. “The boy needs to learn,” she mutters.

Scene: One of those indoor places with inflatable castles and slides where kids can burn energy on rainy days. A little boy around 2 or 3 years old falls off a slide and begins sobbing uncontrollably. I ask him where his parents are and he just keeps crying. I look around for an adult who might claim ownership and no one does. I ask the boy again where his parents are and he just keeps crying. I ask if he needs a hug and he runs over and soaks my sleeve with snot and tears. I tell him everything will be okay while looking around for his parents. Then another dad tells me he thinks the boy’s parents are sitting at a table behind me. I turn around and see the boy’s extended family—mom, dad, uncle, aunt, brothers, sisters—pointing and laughing. They think the whole scene is hilarious. I ask the boy if that’s his family; he nods and runs over and they give him some Cheet-ohs while continuing to laugh at his expense.

Look, I know parenting sucks much of the time. I know it cramps your style. But once you have that kid, you have an obligation to grow up a little. You have an obligation to not be an asshole to your kid.  You don’t have to go overboard. You don’t have to follow your kid 24/7 with a spritzer of hand-sanitizer and give ‘em soy cupcakes for every goddamn little thing. But be there for the important stuff. Like, you know, drowning.

by midnightferret

You’re the smug, entitled taint-berries who not only insist on irresponsibly reproducing, but also feel that the world owes you something because you’ve contributed your fractured DNA to an already polluted gene pool. You let your kids run around screeching in a restaurant, but would probably sue if a waiter dropped a tray of hot food on your little angels. Here’s an idea: if you want to let your kids run around in a restaurant, go to Chuck E. Fucking Cheese’s ™. Oh and that shrill screaming? You may be able to just tune that out, but the rest of the world doesn’t live with your little spoiled, shrieking pile of pure evil.

You “don’t believe in spanking,” but you also obviously don’t believe in any other strategy to show that there are consequences for acting like horrible little goblins from another planet. You probably wonder why your kids’ manners resemble those of someone raised by warthogs with a severe attitude problem.

Not that you really have a reference for good behavior: it’s no wonder your little homunculi can’t behave in public. You obviously are behaviorally challenged yourselves, or you would know that letting your kid run wild or destroy things in public is impolite. I hate to even call you “parents” for fear of insulting real parents who have actually taken responsibility for their offspring.

Oh, and speaking of responsibility, I refuse to take any for your kids. You had ‘em, you make sure they don’t fall/run into doors/get eaten by crocodiles. Also, if they are rude to me, I’m going to say something to them. Don’t give me that line about how only you can discipline your kids. If you actually did so, I wouldn’t have to tell them to stop kicking my seat or I will stab them in the face with a pencil. And don’t snottily tell me, “Well, if you didn’t want to be around kids, why did you go to a family-friendly event/place/porn convention?” Look around, you cretin. It’s not that I don’t want to be around kids, it’s that I don’t want to be around your kids. Some people’s children are capable of behaving like (somewhat) sane human children. Your kids are behaving like escapees from a facility for the criminally loud and idiotic. Incidentally, serving hot dogs at an event does not, in fact, make it “family-friendly,” but that’s another post.

Here’s a tip: if your Golden Retriever behaves better “off-leash” than your children, get off my lawn.

by Nathan Haley

As a general rule I accept and genuinely appreciate the proposition that we as caring, considerate humans should not judge a person by his or her (insert physical trait here).

I accept this rule generally, not unconditionally. One such exception to this rule is the men’s (boy’s) hair style phenomenon characterized by long(ish) hair combed oddly forward from the back / top / side of the head in defiance of any natural part in the hair in such a manner as to cover up the eyes, i.e., the BieberBang (see example below).

Don’t get me wrong – I have no bias between long hair vs. short hair. Military buzz cut, 50’s side part, 90’s chili bowl, the timeless mullet, hell I don’t care if you have a pony tail down to your ass, just so long as maintenance of said “style” does not require an epileptic neck seizure every 10-15 seconds in order to perfectly twitch your bangs back in place in front of your eyes. Seriously, this is completely unacceptable.

I can’t quite put my finger on what it is about the BieberBang that gets me going, but I do know that the second I see it I want to kick some ass.

Not in the casual sense like, I’m irritated and this is my ass kicking cliché figure of speech, but in the literal sense; i.e., the instant I see the BieberBang I have an uncontrollable urge to run up behind the guy and trip him, hold him down & cut off the bangs, then pour a bottle of Old Spice body wash down his throat in the hopes that he starts acting like a man, man.

Maybe teach him to ride a horse backwards? Besides, it’s not like he’s going to see me coming – he’ll be way too distracted texting while his iPod shuffle blares the latest emo ballad which, of course, never fails to bring a tear to his mascara tinged eye. Alas, I digress…

All that said, the point is that the douchebaggery that is the BieberBang has reached epic proportions and it must stop, at once. I’m not kidding. You look like an asshole, and you deserve no mercy. Now get that shit out of your eyes and stop staring at your shoes, you aren’t that tortured and your hair is not epic.

Ed. Note: I couldn’t believe that grown men would actually get a haircut like this, so a-googling I went, and found an image of Tom Brady with the Bieber cut.

by noahvail

If you have small children, or frequent small children’s birthday parties (wtf?), you know the drill: At the end of the party everyone gets a goody bag. The goody bag is traditionally filled with stickers, cheap plastic toys, and if the kids are lucky, candy. Surely this custom began when a parent observed Little Sally crying about not getting a present at Little Timmy’s party. Forget that it was Little Timmy’s birthday, and not Little Sally’s—it was an injustice that needed correction!

While I’m too lazy to conduct actual research I’m pretty sure goody bags really took off in the 1980s and 1990s—which helps explain why young people act so entitled nowadays. They have been taught that every day is their special day, and that everyone gets presents always.

I have two small kids and lots of firsthand experience in this department. I have personally observed a much-older, probably uninvited sibling of a party guest break into tears over not getting a goody bag, and (semi-related) a new-to-me practice of busting open a piñata only to give the candy back to the host to have it redistributed in equal proportions.

But more importantly, I have had a hand (albeit a small one compared to my wife’s) in planning seven or eight birthday parties, and I can tell you this: party planning is hard, and often expensive, and goody bags are just one more goddamn thing that makes the endeavor stressful and not much fun for the hosts.

So let’s stop it with the goody bags. Please. Your kids can handle it, I promise.

by noahvail

Let’s restore the original Star Wars trilogy to its rightful place in cinematic history: They were decent popcorn movies for kids, nothing more, nothing less. The brilliant thing about them was that George Lucas exploited the merchandising rights like no one had ever done before, which spawned a cottage industry that thrives to this day—along with three shittier movies. But the films themselves? Meh.

Let’s review:

Star Wars (Episode whatever-the-fuck, new-fucking-whatever): First third is really boring. Mark Hamill is a shitty actor. Luke Skywalker is whiny as shit. So is C3PO. Dialog sucks all around.

Empire Strikes Back: The best of the lot. Action-packed. Harrison Ford watchable in anything. Yoda. But the fucking walking AT-AT things have got to be the most stupidly designed machines ever. Dialog sucks all around.

Return of the Jedi: Those air-go-carts are kind of cool but… Fucking EWOKS! Dialog sucks all around.

Phantom Menace: Didn’t see it. Looked stupid.

ED.: Saw it. Jar-Jar Binks. Bleh.

Attack of the Clones: Didn’t see it. Looked stupid.

ED.: Saw it. Couldn’t wait for the Jedi to be snuffed. Roberts Rules of Order, anyone?

Revenge of the Sith: Didn’t see it. Looked stupid.

ED.: Last 20 minutes were cool. Annakin in the lava FTW! Then they had to do the NOOOOOOOOOOOO bit. Sigh.

Here’s the thing:

If you were a kid in the late 70s and 80s, you remember the mania surrounding the original three films, and probably bought into it. But that’s just it: you were a kid. These movies are for children. You are remembering how cool they seemed at the time, and refusing to view them critically now.

If you are a young person who didn’t see any of the original Star Wars movies until they were available on video or DVD, you are under the influence of old people, possibly even your parents, who projected onto you the coolness of the Star Wars franchise. It’s not your fault. But now is the time to repent.

And if you were an adult in the 70s and 80s, and still collect Yoda dolls and shit, well, that’s just sad.