Get Off My Lawn

by myerman

Okay, because it is Festivus, I will follow @imtheq’s lead and Air Some Grievances™.

1. I am disappointed to find myself constantly explaining to non-Texans why/how Rick Perry keeps getting re-elected.
2. It’s nearly 2012. No jet packs. No ray guns. No lightsabers. But we have Twitter. #aggrieved
3. I’m seriously wondering who you people are who like and/or demand 3-D movies. Can I punch you in the face?
4. The world is run by morning people. I find you distressingly disappointing. Now go get me that cup of coffee.
5. You people who say “lightening” instead of “lightning”? What the fucking fuck? Stay in school.
6. All of you folks who tweeted death threats because of #godisnotgreat trending–way to go.
7. Copious and capricious non-productive sexism. Get your shit together — this is why you’re not getting laid.
8. Any cop who tases/pepper sprays/beats a peaceful protestor, anywhere on earth: we do not forgive, we do not forget.
9. All you assholes who have given “patriot” and “patriotic” a bad name with your hijinks–you offend me to my core.
10. The constant bedwetting and uber rhetoric of both left and right. Pipe down and let’s jut talk this out, okay?
11. People who don’t pay attention to my twitter stream. What the hell? It’s all about me, okay? @technosailor
12. People who don’t put apostrophes in the right places. Jeezy Creezy.
13. Ignoramuses who actually believe there is a war on Christmas. Listen, just buy your gifts and sing your carols and STFU.
14. You people who dress up your dogs and cats and then post images on the interwebs? I hope those animals eat you.
15. Austinites. You suck at driving, okay? Seek help. Green light != tap the brakes as you approach intersection. GAH!
16. WWF pluggers. I know what you’re doing. Let’s throw down with a Scrabble board face-to-face. Twats.
17. Patrick Stewart, you haven’t aged a day since you leveled up in the 1990s. What the hell man?
18. Any fanboy geek, anywhere. Yes, yes, yes, they left out Tom Bombadil in LOTR movie. Deal.
19. Misleading headlines in blogs. Die.
20. Newt Gingrich. The worst of the 90s come back to haunt us. Feh.
21. Tebow. I don’t follow sports, but you are an egregious moron. Keep your faith to yourself, you little pimple.
22. Cialis commercials. What do sitting in bath tubs have to do with sexy time? WHAT? WHY?
23. People who say things like “it’s always the last place you look.” Of course it is! Why keep looking once I’ve found it????
24. Companies that send you SMS spam. Hunt you down with a machete.
25. Finally, you Facebook pokers. Really?

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 noahvail

Mensa means "table" in Latin. What kind of a stupid fucking name is that?

Q: How do you know if someone is in Mensa?
A: Don’t worry; they’ll tell you.

If any organization encapsulates Groucho Marx’s joke about not joining any club that would have him as a member it has got to be Mensa, the so-called “High IQ Society.”

Many years ago, I went with my then-girlfriend to a Mensa testing facility. In retrospect, this was a terrible idea on many levels, one of which being the ensuing awkwardness should one of us pass and the other fail.

Taking the test was my idea. I was a wannabe journalist and we went under the ruse that it would give me something to write about. But really, I wanted to know. I wanted third-party validation that I was smart. And I wanted to show off in front of my girlfriend. These were bad reasons for trying to gain admission to Mensa, but I can’t think of any better ones.

At the testing facility we were given not one, not two, but three separate IQ tests. One involved a lot of visualization of shapes turned in different directions, and another contained a section in which one of the testers read a long story and then we were quizzed on how much we remembered from it. (This part I am sure I failed miserably.)

According to their website Mensa is open to “persons who have attained a score within the upper two percent of the general population on an approved intelligence test that has been properly administered and supervised.” So it should have been no surprise that we took three different tests, because it triples the odds that someone will pass. And the more people who pass, the more members Mensa acquires. (Can you imagine a similar methodology for obtaining a driver’s license, or a concealed-carry permit? “Don’t like this test? Take another one!”)

A few weeks later we got the results in the mail. We had each passed one of the three tests. We were smart! Mensa told us so! Included with the results were a membership form and a return-address envelope so you could send your payment for the first year’s dues.

My girlfriend was smarter than me. She saw the results and said “meh.”

I wrote the check.

There was no need to do this other than sheer narcissism. I had my story, if I wanted it. But I wanted more. I wanted to be a Mensa member. I wanted the bragging rights.

<digression>
In sixth grade I took an IQ test. I marginally qualified as “gifted.” The next year I started going two days a week with my “gifted” cohort to a different school, where we did, I dunno, “gifted”-type stuff. Then I self-destructed and scraped through junior high and high school with a lot of Ds and Fs and almost dropped out in 11th grade. Yeah, I was that jerkweed.

Now I’m a grownup and I have kids, and one of the parenting tips that has stuck with me is not to over-praise your kids about how smart they are. When kids grow up believing they are smarter than everyone else, they frequently think they don’t need to work very hard at anything. In school, work, and life I learned to do the bare minimum required to get by. This is why I tell my kids they are dumb and need to work harder. (Kidding.)

Point is, being smart only gets you so far. It’s what you do with those smarts that counts. I have not invented anything. I have not produced any great works of art. If I died today my only legacy would be two darling children, and as we all know, it doesn’t take a genius to breed.
</digression>

So after sending my check I received my Mensa membership card and the newsletter, which contained brain-teasers I was incapable of completing and information about local Mensa meetups (or, since this was the 90s, “meetings”). It might have been to my detriment that I never attended any of the meetings, and defenders of Mensa will probably say this is the main reason for joining: To meet like-minded people. Because, you know, interacting with cretins with a sub-130 IQ can be so frustrating.

I too want to surround myself with smart people. I’m just not sure I want to surround myself with smart people whose only common ground is being narcissistic enough to take some silly test(s) and pay dues to an organization to validate how smart they are.

And I’m pretty sure that is the only point of Mensa.

by myerman

If you’re like the driver in the video below (and yes, I did shoot that video myself, yesterday, while driving along Burnet Road) then I can only assume that you’re:

A) totally jamming out to Metallica (I hope) or something else, and the music’s so loud you can’t hear the blinker noise (or see the light blinking on your dashboard). If this is the case, good for you, you also won’t hear the screams of agony when you run over pets and small children as you re-enact that drum solo from last summer’s MONSTERS OF RAWK concert;

B) on the goddamned phone and only have enough brain cells to steer the car and plan your next trip to Davos, Switzerland or whatever the hell it is you’re talking about. Well, at least for the sake of the people you run off the road, I hope it’s something important, and that you’re not using your drive time for something inane like asking your spouse which brand of foot cream you’re supposed to get on the way home;

 

C) shooting video of the moron driving in front of you, and so engrossed by that activity that you don’t notice that your blinker is on.

In any case, this is exactly why I don’t trust drivers who fly down the road with their turn signals on. Sure, sure, most of you are law-abiding citizens who will actually turn when they have their blinker on, but it only takes one dipshit like this guy to cream you and then you know better. So everyone who is sitting behind me in the parking lot of Whole Foods waiting to exit, just give me a break, I ain’t going to the morgue because people like that can’t be bothered to turn off their turn signals.

P.S. If liking Boston is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

by Maxine

Firstly, I’d like to start by saying I actually do quite a few of the things listed on this site that qualify me as an asswipe. What can I say? I’m a work in progress. :)

But, my rant for the evening is… people who act like they’ve never met anyone from another country before. Ok, so maybe it’s completely possible that they haven’t… we are in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere Ohio, after all.

So, I am in the midst of a separation/divorce. So I decide to spread my wings, and venture out into a new circle of friends this past weekend, by doing something out of the ordinary for me – going to watch a Cincinnati Reds ballgame.

After having lived in the US for 15 years, most people are used to my craziness… er, I mean accent. Frankly, by now, I don’t even remember that I have one!! But, throw me into a new group, and it’s like I’ve just stepped off the boat again.

These people looked at me like I was a freaking rock star!! Now, ok, what the hell is she complaining about, you’re probably thinking. Trust me, after having to explain your entire life story every time you open your mouth for the past 15 years, it gets a little old.

My sarcastic remarks have gone through quite a few changes over the years – I’ve had plenty of chances to test my material, see which ones fly over, and which don’t. But now, the whole *I came here for love* story needs a whole new ending! I’m still practicing the appropriate response. There’s nothing like dropping the D bomb, and having everyone go immediately into a big Debbie downer. But no, it’s all good! – I tell them. They’re not believing me. Deep sigh. If only they knew.

So where was I? Ahh, the ball game. So, I had one guy say to me – can you say Joshua? (umm…) So I say it. Oh man, he says, girls with accents are HOT!! Please. If I were 300 pounds with a wart on my nose, would you be saying that? (no offense to the larger ladies of this world, nor the wart wearing ones either – I had them on both knees as a kid)

Then, I had the guy who ended up sitting next to me, who would not stop talking to me the whole time, much to the chagrin of his wife who was on his other side. I heard a few snide comments coming from her – she was not impressed with his excitement over the whole Australian thing.

I went to the bathroom at one stage, and came back to find she had swapped seats with him. And she wasn’t interested in finding out about the finer details of the Outback, trust me. Neither was she impressed when he told her that since she was sitting next to me now, that it was her responsibility to keep me informed on the finer points of the baseball game.

Hello?? I might be a foreigner, but I do have the brains to work out the rules of a freaking ball game! I just wish he didn’t continue to try to talk to me over the top of her head… can I get some peanuts please?!

So, in summary, Australians are just people like you. We may not come from the land of the free and the brave, but really – we’re actually freer AND braver than you all, just don’t let anyone else know. We are just people.

Admittedly, yes, our people are way cooler than yours for the most part, but if you can just treat us like you treat others, we’ll be happy to share our fabulousness with you. And sure, if you’d like to buy me a beer to show your appreciation, go right ahead.

Just don’t ask me to say your name. :)

by Don't Get Me Started

Dear this year’s weather:

You suck for making floods in the Midwest while we are in a bone-crushing drought.

You can kiss my ass for visiting countless severe storms and tornados on the South while we sit here parched and on fire.

I go to turn off my car and burn my finger on the metal part of the key where it fits into the steering column? Really? It’s just now June 1 and we’re getting the worst of the typical August weather?

I hate the sultry. I hate the unrelenting oppression which continues through the darkest night. I hate that I can drink a 64-ounce water while I work in the yard and not have to tinkle later. I hate the smell of sweaty pits.

Why is it so damn hot? We live in a temperate zone if you hadn’t heard.

Whatever one’s position on global warming, you can’t deny that it farking sucks, weatherwise, in Austin right now. My sunglasses fog up when I step outside. My yard is dead. Our gorgeous greenbelt is turning brown. Mopac and Oak Hill are up in flames. Doggie footpads are burning on the concrete. I scalded my tongue on a bottled water that had been sitting on the passenger seat. Babies are dying inside parked cars. It is crushingly hot, way too early in the summer.

My car thermostat literally showed 124 F yesterday. How is that acceptable?

It is time to return to some average temperatures, weather. You heard me. Get off my lawn, or if you won’t, at least please rain on it a bit.

by myerman

I started Get Off My Lawn as an antidote to all the happy-sunshine I’m-so-positive-I-make-everyone-vomit-around-me isn’t-everyone-just-awesome and isn’t-life-great type blogs that seem to crop up everywhere. I wanted a personal place to vent. I figured I’d get the occasional traffic from those who also viewed the world through curmudgeon colored glasses, and to my surprise, I found a whole community of fellow grumpy bastards who also wanted to vent.

And vent they did: about their fucked up neighbors, about people’s driving habits, about Justin Bieber, and about those damn kids and their droopy pants. It’s been a grouchapalooza here, and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.

I’ve also managed to attract a whole other group of people, and they’re just about as much fun as anything else that’s Get Off My Lawn related, but for entirely different reasons. I’m talking about the easily offended. Yes, yes, I get emails from Christians who object to my poking fun at those who believe in the rapture (and by the way, it’s Rapture day, what happened? I guess you guys are wrong!). And yes I get emails and DMs from people who don’t care for my f-bombing, which is such a fucking shame.

But even funnier, I get emails from other under-represented grump targets….like people who drive giant trucks. Yes, I get emails from these people, how I’m picking on them for their God-given right to buy and drive any damn thing they please. Oh, and I once received an email from a guy who was offended that I made fun of flat-taxers.

So I’d like to take the time to share little snippets of emails and other messages received over the past few months, and then respond to these notes in public. But before I do, I’d just like to say that if you’re a big giant truck owner and don’t like our obvious liberal media stance on big giant trucks and their owners, then submit a rant about tree-hugging hippy Prius drivers and then get off my lawn while you’re at it.

Okay, here goes, and again, I’m only offering up snippets, I wouldn’t want your brains to cramp from the stupid.

I would not want my children to read your blog.

Sooooo, I didn’t start this blog with children in mind, but I’m guessing you’re home schooled and don’t understand things like irony, sarcasm, “age appropriate material” or responsible parenting. Listen, even if your damn kids were to encounter my blog, I assure you it’s probably the least offensive thing they’ll find. Try googling “tits” and see what you come up with, for starters.

Note: Dear breasted readers: I don’t mean to imply, with that previous statement, that tits are offensive. In fact, I rather like tits. Thank you.

Why do you feel the need to use an excessive amount of foul language publicly?

It’s because I’m a craven little bastard (quite literally, my parents didn’t marry until after my birth) who, despite having both an undergraduate and a graduate degree in English/Linguistics, doesn’t feel the need to waste bigger words on simpletons such as yourself. Besides, now that I know it pisses you off, I’m gonna cuss like a one-legged cross-eyed motherfucker.

I believe in God. Your blog is offensive to both me and Him. [I get a variant on this every other week]

What, does God not approve of my blog? Are you trying to tell me that the Almighty has read my blog? That’s fantastic! Why hasn’t he commented–never mind, he’s a lurker, I won’t judge. Listen, if God is reading my blog, that’s just a bit scary, ya know? Shouldn’t he be making sure that galaxies don’t collide or that genocide doesn’t happen in Africa or something? That’s it! Bad things happen because He’s reading Get Off My Lawn, we distracted Him.

I bought my truck before gas prices went up. You’re slamming people like me for not knowing the future. [paraphrasing about 10 emails]

Alas, no, I’m slamming people like you for not paying general attention to the conversation most of us have been having for about, saaaaaaaaaaaay 30+ years now. Peak oil ring a bell? Global warming? Depleted natural resources? And even if you somehow believe, as Rush Limbaugh does, that there really is a whole bunch of undiscovered oil out there ready to tap, have you noticed the general trend in gas prices in your life time? Has it ever trended down? No? You think that’s an important pattern, something that might, I don’t know, influence a buying decision?

Why do you feel the need to spout negativity all the time?

Again, I guess reading comprehension wasn’t your strong suit, and hey, that’s okay I guess. (See, that was sarcasm. It’s really not okay.) We’re being negative for a purpose–to have a little fun, and maybe in the off chance that the targets of our ridicule might just wake the fuck up and stop being assholes. But more than that, it’s a free country. I get to publish what I want thanks to the First Amendment. You get to read it or not read it depending on your desire to actually follow a link to my site. If you don’t like it, then go away. If you’re too weak-willed to not look away, well, I’m not qualified to help you.

Besides which, if you were to ask any of the grumpy fucks who make up this august body of Get-Off-My-Lawners, every single one of them would say we were having a good time, and that you’re the Debbie Downer. So eat my shorts.

I really liked [whatever movie I trashed, usually the Star Wars prequels] — why are you so mean to fanboys? [that's a total paraphrase, but honestly, you don't want to read the originals, it'll make you break out in hives]

Son, there are people in this world who will convince you that there is no such thing as an objectively bad piece of art. I can tell you, after having sat through Ishtar, Godfather III, the last 2 Matrix movies, and the Star Wars prequels that utter pieces of crap do exist and do get made. I wish I could say that I’m sorry that I stepped all over your fanboy toes with my big old grumpy boots, but then I’d be lying. I’m not sorry I did that. In fact, thanks for the feedback, I’ll do it again sometime.

You must make a lot of money from Get Off My Lawn!

Okay, that’s not really a complaint email, but since I’m answering fan mail, I need to address this. Yes, I’ve made a fuckton of cash off this thing, you wouldn’t believe how much. Just the other day I got a report from my click throughs on Amazon and I’ve made $1.07 in the past 180 days, total. That’s almost a coffee at Dunkin Donuts.

Seriously, people, I don’t this for the money. I do this for you. All of you.

by Don't Get Me Started

Thanks to some nasty weather, I’m 12 hours into what should have been a five-hour trip, and still haven’t left my home state. With that in mind, just a few points I’d like to make to the other 10,000 people in this airport with me.

1.) Please don’t stop suddenly in the middle of the concourse. Please don’t stop slowly. It’s best not to stop at all, really, because the 9,999 passengers also trying to walk on the concourse will either barrel into you from behind, or have to go around you – attempting to merge into the endless stream of people and babies and roll aboard suitcases. You wouldn’t suddenly just STOP in the middle of the freeway for no reason, would you? Then why are you doing it now? If you MUST stop and re-evaluate your path of travel, you need to move to the shoulder.

2.) When sitting in the waiting area prior to a flight, it is acceptable to consume one or more chairs. That is, until the area fills up with other passengers. At that point, you need to remove your bag, or your leg, or your book, or whatever item you have flung across the chair in order to hog it. In this age of completely full flights and shrinking seats, it’s absurd to assume that you will enjoy personal space at any time during a trip aboard an airplane so trying to create a false sense of it while others are left standing is just douchey.

3.) When you get to the baggage carousel, stay a step or two back from the belt. If all passengers stay a step or two back, then each person can see the approaching bags and step forward to retrieve his or her luggage. Stepping in front of me and blocking my access to the belt will not make your bag arrive sooner. And now I have to poke you on the shoulder to get you to move so I can get my bag. Dumbass.

4.) Weather delays and mechanical problems suck for everyone. All of us have delayed flights and are tired and stressed because we are going to be late to whatever thing we had to do at the other end of our trip. There is nothing special about your delay and no reason you should act so assholically because it just puts everyone in a worse mood. Don’t contribute to the problem. Just suck it up and deal.

5.)Why are you choosing not to wash your hands IN AN AIRPORT BATHROOM??? The germs of 10 million people live there. Disgusting.

6.) Really, just try to be a little self-aware. It would make a world of difference. Don’t bump into my head with your bag. Don’t roll over my toe. I’m happy to see you reunite with your long-lost whomever, but if you could just move over to the left to do your hugging, the rest of us could continue on our way.

7.) Stop cutting in line. Asshole.

8.) Lady in the platform heels, tight pants, gold jewelry and too much perfume. Yeah, I’m talking to you. You’re being ridiculous. Stop it. Hang up your phone and get busy disrobing so the rest of us can get through security before our flights leave.

9.) And finally to the man sitting next to me on the plane. Yes, It’s 1 a.m. and we’re all tired. Glad you can sleep. But, please, for the love of all that is pure and good in this world, remove your hand from inside your waistband. You’re not Al Bundy and you’re not at home.

Take heed or else you leave me no choice but to channel my inner Harrison Ford: “Get Off My Plane!”

by myerman

Dear King of the Pig People,

Yes, you, the guy who just used a public restroom and left without so much as glancing at the sink. You’re the guy with all that fecal bacteria layered on your hands. You touch your kids with those hands? Touch your significant other? Yeah?

Well first, you’re going to touch the doorknob on the bathroom (thanks, now I have to use a paper towel to get out of here!), then you’re going to touch the restaurant/bar table top, and the chairs, and utensils, and the menus (which never get wiped down THANKS AGAIN!) and gah! I can barely think about how fucking gross you are!

I’m not a germophobe, or someone who is obsessive about hygiene. But for Odin’s sake, I wash my hands after wiping my ass or using the urinal, or hell, just because I walked into a public bathroom.

Depending on the quality of said bathroom, I feel like washing my hands AFTER I’ve already washed my hands and then touched the paper towel dispenser.

But not you. You think your privates come with a little built-in anti-bacterial misting device or something. GUESS AGAIN!

And ladies, don’t think I don’t know about some of you just because I’m a guy. I’ve been married 18 years, and the stories my wife tells me of the kind of shit you pull (no pun intended) in public restrooms and then leave without washing your hands…it’s enough to make me swear off human contact forever.

Maybe if restaurants and bars installed alarm systems that detect when people don’t wash their hands….

by midnightferret

Creepy, ain't she?

I’m not talking about true Pollyannas. Some people just can’t help being positive all the time. It’s a sickness, and I pity them. I’m talking about the smug people who always go on about their positive outlooks on life, the universe, and everything, and then promptly turn around and whine. Usually right on the tail of saying, in a false self-deprecating manner, “You know, I try to stay positive about everything. It’s healthier/better/ eatitmylifestyle’sbetterthanyours!” The next thing you know, they’re whining about some insignificant BS.

The first problem is the whole smug thing. Smug people suck. Smugness is only allowed when someone increases his/her efficiency or otherwise accomplishes something which makes his/her life more awesome. And if you find yourself feeling smug, try to keep it to yourself, like a fart. If a little bit leaks out, and it only lingers for a short time, fine, that’s allowed — if it’s only a little. Otherwise, I don’t want to be around you.

The second problem is yammering to the whole world about how positive they are, and then the first time they break a toenail or something the whole “positive attitude” goes out the window. To clarify, I don’t mean that people aren’t allowed to complain about real problems. I also understand that we all have subjective ideas about pain and problems. I understand that one person’s broken toenail is another person’s broken arm (because some people are whiners). What I do not understand is how someone can tell the entire universe (usually via social media) about how positive he/she is and then spend two or three days whining about how horrible everything is for him/her.  If we are close, and you have any problems (big or small) you are always welcome to tell me about them. If you are broadcasting to the entire universe via social media, I really do not care about your little inconveniences.  Still, that’s because I’m a cranky mofo, and that’s also an entirely different post. The larger issue here is that you are supposed to be little miss/mister fucking sunshine, aren’t you? If the former is true, then you shouldn’t be whining every ten fucking minutes about how miserable you are. I hate to abuse italics even more than is my habit, but really, what else must I do to convince you people to do some serious self-examination?

Either stop being hypocrites or stop being whiners: I really don’t care as long as you get off my lawn.