1) What the fuck makes fratboys think that playing baseball in their disgusting fratboy garden behind one of Seattle's busier streets at six p.m. on a weekday is a good idea? I mean, football or basketball I can almost understand. You'd have to lug a football or basketball pretty hard for it to do serious damage to a car or a person, but a baseball?
Two nights ago, I watched two University of Washington douchebag cockwad fratboys hurl a baseball into traffic on the corner of 45th and 17th. The ball hit the pavement once and then bounced onto a Kia minivan. So that was okay, because Kia minivans leave the showroom floor with seven dents. Thankfully for the Delta Beta Rapeyas, the ball didn't hit my car, because if it had, there'd be some seriously fucked up UW fratboys in the UW Medical Center right now. What the fuck is wrong with their tiny little brains that convinces them to play ball-sports in traffic?
2) Hey, you in the Jaguar! What the fuck makes you think that having a more expensive car than me gives you the right to pull out into traffic in front of me and then immediately hit your breaks because you want to turn into the Starbucks parking lot at 8:50 a.m?
I took the driving test to get my license in the great state of Washington, and I don't recall the part of the drivers' guide that details how right of way is determined by price of vehicle. However, I do remember the part about using the little lights on the corners of your car to show in which direction you intend to turn.
3) What kind of awesome fucking mirrors must fat girls in skimpy outfits own? I mean, Christ Almighty, if you think you look good when you leave the house with a size 5 top gripping hold of your size 16 belly, imagine how us not-so-morbidly-obese people would look!
What the fuck is wrong with these girls who prance around with their stomachs hanging out over the tops of their pants? You'd think you'd want to hide that, wouldn't you? You'd think you'd want to cover that shit up with a nice big sweater. But you don't. You want to let that belly button roam free, swaying from side to side as it points directly at the ground.
Girls, you should only let your midriff show if it looks like this. The same applies to boys, but this "what the fuck" is just about the fatticus females I've seen over the past few warm days in Seatown.
4) What the fuck makes people think that walking directly behind someone else is going to make them walk faster? Walking back from lunch today, this dude's right behind us, flip-flops going phlabunk phlabunk phlabunk on the sidewalk. You know, there's a good sized area on either side of our group where you can walk by. Shuffling along, two inches behind, is not going to make me walk any faster.
5) A woman has moved into my apartment building who is deathly afraid of dogs. I am not exaggerating one bit here. I have come face-to-face with her twice now and both times, I was escorting my dog to his designated doggy bathroom. Both times, this woman, who must be about fifty years old, hit the wall like I was in possession of a cobra or a hungry-looking lion.
The second time, my dog (who is five months old. Oooh, big scary puppy) and I were trying to go down the stairs when she was coming up. She made a noise that appeared to be an attempt to say something, but she collided so hard with the wall of the stairwell that the wind was knocked out of her.
"He's okay, he's just a pup," I told her. "He's very friendly."
But I was talking to her back. She'd thrown a 180 and was on her way back down the stairs. When dear little Cujo and I made it to the door of the building, the woman was back-to-door with the elevator, eyes like dinner plates.
Now, I am actually scared of people who are scared of dogs. I'm always afraid of what they're going to do. This woman scares the living shit out of me because if my dog even looks in her general direction, I'm scared she's going to suddenly decide that he was about to jump for her jugular, and call Animal Control. So I tried to calm the situation a little. Before my dog took a piss on the floor.
"Don't worry about him," I assured her. "He's a very nice dog."
Again, she made a series of noises that sounded somewhat like English words. However, her speech was so muffled and garbled with terror that I still have no idea what she said. The rabid coyote I let live in my house and I exited the building and I assume she went home and shivered in a corner.
The great big huge stinking pile of what the fuck here is that OUR APARTMENT BUILDING WELCOMES BIG DOGS. This is not normal in Seattle. A lot of buildings let residents keep small dogs (the weight limit is usually about twenty-five pounds). When one moves into our building, one is asked if one has a pet or if one plans to acquire one during one's stay. Now, you'd think that if you had a debilitating fear of animals of the canine variety, you'd inquire about the pet policy before you moved into an apartment complex. You'd think. Obviously not this dipshit. No, she'll move into a building that houses a rottweiler, three big labs, two collies, two varieties of shepherd and a pitbull cross. I mean, come on. What the fuck?
6) The song by Hinder that begins with the line "I think you can do much better than me." It always reminds me that yes I can, and I change the station. What the fuck kind of opening line is that?
7) What the fuck.
Thank you all. Have a great weekend.
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