mistaking caffeine for crack cocaine and vice versa – wrong.

According to my calculations, caffeinated beverages and FDA approved foods do not currently contain any kind of the freebase cocaine product more commonly known as crack. Likewise, I have never seen an episode of COPS where the aging prostitute with shmeared blue eyeliner stains on her cheeks and one shoe was caught smoking cappuccino gas out of the suspicious looking (and smelling) pipe she’d been hiding in her vagina. While these two factoids may seem isolated, I’m here to tell you that they’ve helped me approach an important epiphany of which I’m about to share with you. Caffeine is not the same thing as crack. Crack is not the same thing as a caffeine.

Unless you are between the ages of Fetus and 2 months old, there is absolutely no excuse for you to spaz out like a crazed maniac with rabies after a cup of coffee. I don’t mean to deny that 17 cups of double espressos at 3am might impede a good night’s rest. I do mean to imply that any grown person who has a cup of coffee after lunch and immediately proceeds to act like somebody just shot a potent eight-ball up his/her asshole needs to actually have someone shoot a potent eight-ball up his/her asshole. I mean are you serious people? What kind of home did you grow up in? Was macaroni and cheese drugs too? Were you not allowed to wear your D.A.R.E. t-shirt because it was too risque? Did you take your first drink at age 42? Was it a wine spritzer? Was it Zima? One cup of coffee shouldn’t make you all jittery and unable to concentrate on anything. You shouldn’t have to sprawl out on a cold bathroom floor for thirty minutes to puke and/or sweat it out.

Every time I’m around one of these morons I feel like I am suddenly the lone grown up at the Babysitter’s Club sleepover of my nightmares. I imagine all these adult coffee-tards in flannel PJ sets that are covered in teddy bears (no offense to teddy bears), talking about zits and hickeys and giggling guiltily as they stuff their faces with the chocolate-peanut butter spread they found under someone’s mom’s bed. And then I picture me, sitting in the corner, holding a bottle of Grey Goose and staring at everyone in disgust and confused disbelief. “You can’t have vodka because COFFEE makes you JITTERY?” I yell to them, over and over again. “Kristy? Mary Anne? You won’t even TRY it? You had a Cappuccino and it raised your heartbeat to 239 bpm? What if I mix it with Gerber Baby Apricots or breast milk? What if I let you drink it right out of some lady’s tit?”

And then I’d probably end up knocking the bottle back alone and punching myself in the face repeatedly. This is what I get for attending a sleepover that doesn’t involve penetration, early morning horror, and a clandestine escape.

Just grow up people. Have a cup of coffee and then just sit still! Or shoot some crack in your eyelid, bug out, and try to swallow your own face! Stop getting these reactions twisted already. And remember this mantra next time you see me and your caffeinated beverage in the same room: “COFFEE ISN’T CRACK AND IF I ACT LIKE IT IS, I’LL SOON BE SHOT BY AN ANGRY JEW.”

poorly thought out chivalry – wrong.

Everyday I ride an elevator up to the 20th floor. This elevator stops on floors 12-21, so logically, I am often standing in the back on my way down to the lobby.  An amazingly bright, worthwhile cast of characters often joins me in this claustrophobic box that takes me to and from the largest gaping hellhole where which I wallow in suicidal thoughts on the daily. Pseudo-buff (see: FAT) Guido lawyers with porcupine spiked plastic legos for hair in silk purple ties, short stubby dudes in tattered khakis who will likely spend the day plugging and unplugging computer cables while pretending to “network” something. And the people who work on my floor: personality devoid zombies who feel entitled to pass themselves off as human because they can walk on two feet instead of four. It’s a real treat.

Here’s the thing. Let me reiterate. I’m at the back of the elevator.  So let me say this. If you have to slam me into the elevator wall and/or hold me up for 14 minutes while you do some sort of idiot shuffle where your backpack ends up inside someone else’s asshole in order to let me out of the elevator first, then IT IS NOT CHIVALRY. Give it up.

First of all Guido lawyers, it is obvious to me, BROS, that while you may put on some crazy chivalry show by tripping over your shiny clown shoes while you unsuccessfully try to let me out of the revolving door first, I am well aware that you are the same dudes who roofied and raped several girls while you shat your way through the University of Indiana Fratville. And after one beer and a slightly oversized piece of chicken marsala, you would rape me too.  This is actually not chivalrous behavior at all. So your day glow orange face is idiotspeak for “heinously transparent contradiction with McDonald’s hamburger meat for a brain.”

I mean are you serious with this chivalry bullshit? Next time you find yourself sharing a street with me where there is an imminent possibility that some irritated Frenchman might dump urine out his 8th floor window then by all means, walk on the inside and make yourself the target. But last time I checked, we aren’t in a commercial for “White Diamonds” by Elizabeth Taylor or “Diamonds are forever or until I eff your best friend with the fake tatties” commercial by DeBeers. Last time I checked, I was fully able to gather the strength in my pale and measly arm to open a cab door by myself. Last time I checked, I wasn’t interested in getting a close-up sniff of your Axe-drenched stankass armpit as you hold the door and awkwardly make me crawl underneath it and eat your deodorant crumbs. Last time I checked, I was smarter/faster than you and not interested in interacting with you at all.  So I’d really appreciate it if you would let me pretend you don’t exist as is my preferred way of dealing with annoying tools such as yourselves.

*Note: You should still always warn a girl 5-7 seconds before you impregnate her tonsils.

first response pregnancy test – wrong.

I like to submit my writing to publications as often as possible, because rejection is fun and it’s good to be reminded how worthless I am on the regular.  Below is my most recent rejected submission – an “Open Letter” to the First Response Pregnancy Test Advertising Team – openly rejected by “Kelly the Intern” at mcsweeneys.net, because it just wasn’t her style. I’m sure she’ll be graduating high school this June in a beautiful gown from Forever21 and a toilet baby of her own. I hope you enjoy it more than she did!

*******

Dear FRPTAT:

I’ve noticed a disturbing trend in the procreative community. It seems to me that a number of its members, namely those with less than ideal parental (and might I suggest mental?) qualifications, decide to throw caution to the wind and condoms in the garbage and whoopsie, out comes a baby.

For example, teenagers are perhaps too busy basking in the glow of their own wildly miscalculated invincibility to worry about what might happen when they get busy with each other. Think Bristol Palin and Levi Johnston, Jamie Lynn Spears and her Barely Literate Baby Daddy, the drugstore cashier you run into at 3am when you are maybe searching for a pregnancy test yourself. Unsettling, I know! And as dedicated advertising professionals, I am sure you pay close attention to all the hottest, freshest television programs on the dial. Have you seen the Discovery Health Channel’s mesmeric reality series called “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant?” In an alarming twist of events, this program’s title is neither a metaphor nor is it a behind-the-scenes look at the making of a Wes Craven picture. It is actually a show about ladies who do not realize that they are with child until what they assume is a severe case of constipation turns out to be – well – not.

Know this, First Respondents. As a woman, I appreciate you doing all you can to help me know if I’m pregnant the second it happens. I don’t doubt that the blessed genii in your chemistry labs will soon afford me the ability to detect my pregnancy pre-fornication – perhaps several hours or even days before a future suitor and I consummate our regrettable one night stand!  Unfortunately, I’m not quite sure I have the same confidence in your advertising personnel, whom I believe are largely responsible for the above-mentioned pregnancy debacles.

Let me explain. I recently partook in an all-night television marathon, during which I binged on “The Real Housewives of New York City” and “Keeping Up With the Kardashians”. Picture it. There I am on the couch, methodically flipping back and forth between Bravo and E!, E! and Bravo, like a basic cable zombie. Your commercial appears on my screen, and it’s advertising your cutting-edge, rapid-detection, aptly named First Response Pregnancy Test. A lovely looking lady glides into the frame. She emits a kind of maternal sagacity that only those experienced in child rearing, and therefore stick-urination, could emit.  Whatever she says, I will take her word for it. I trust her. She looks intently into the camera, secures my attention, and tells me, “You know, there IS such a thing as being a little bit pregnant.”

Come again?

What?

No. No way, you deceptively sagacious, fraudulently maternal freak. There is actually no such thing as being a little bit pregnant. You are lying. Find me one doctor, one scientist, one woman in labor who can define what being just “a little bit pregnant” could possibly mean.

Listen, it may be the middle of the night, and I may be drunk off Robitussin and Linzer tarts, but I know a dangerous lie when I hear one. Thankfully, I am also not as dumb – ahem- uninformed as some of my counterparts whom I described to you earlier in my letter. You cannot tell a fourteen-year-old girl who grew up behind a meth lab in the barren New Mexico desert that it is possible for her to get just a little bit pregnant. No big deal, it’s cool, it’s just a little. Well, she saw your commercial and is now scheduled to give birth at someone’s junior prom. The woman who mistook her pregnancy for an irritable bowel? Let’s just say it takes a special kind of mother to confuse her birth canal with her back door. The kind of mother who thinks she’s either going to give birth to a boy, a girl, or a jellyfish.

Please stop airing this misleading commercial immediately. I am begging you. You are confusing stupid future parents everywhere. America is getting dumber and you are perpetuating the cycle- one urine-soaked stick at a time! I don’t know if you think this commercial is a funny joke, or if its production coincided with your copyeditor’s vacation. What I do know, FRPTAT, is that you may be the reason why our babies are dropping out of school and into toilets.

Yours truly,

redthnapper

my next mentor – wrong.

I see this billboard everyday. Everyday I do a triple take.

Uh, these people look like crackheads. The girl on the left in particular looks like someone recently rescued her from a sewer off Downing St. in Flushing, Queens. They definitely don’t appear to be people whom I should entrust as my mentor.

Dear William Paterson University – not interested.

“old spice baby!” and similarly misplaced enthusiasm – wrong.

Few things in life warrant a passionate verbal outcry. Winning Jeopardy might be a valid reason to get audibly pumped – that seems exciting! Getting shot in the face might justify some screaming. Certainly the sight of a nude Aretha Franklin downing triple cheeseburgers and masturbating is enough to provoke chronic fits of uncontrollable shrieking.

Most of the time, life does not require any sort of intense reaction. More specifically, you should not be so freaking excited about the kind of products you use/the town in which you were born/the location of your last vacation/your meaningless opinion. Unless you are being paid upwards of 7-figures in cash as part of a television sponsorship deal, nothing you say will ever qualify as an important announcement or a reason to go fucking crazy about your favorite brand of deodorant while jizzing yourself.

As I was shopping for extra-strength migraine killing injectable liquid-form Excedrin in Duane Reade today, I overheard two frat boys (a common offender group) having a conversation that went like this:

Chad: Bro, yo. Bro. What kind of deodorant to you use?

Brad: OLD SPICE, BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Chad: Oh yo, for real? Do you like it?

Brad: BRO OLD SPICE IS THE SHIT BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What? Did Brad invent Old Spice? Did he journey to the muddy, fecal infested fields of India in 4 A.D. to search for a magical combination of pungent, borderline offensive odors, let them ferment for 350 years, and package them in a red tube which he so wittily named “Old Spice”?  I don’t think he did. In fact, I don’t think Brad has wiped his ass in a week. Perhaps that’s why he favors the Old Spice – it covers up those lingering diarrhea clouds. Calm down Brad. You’re not announcing the hundred million dollar powerbowl. You’re not Oprah giving away shitty low-end cars to joyless midwestern housewives. Save the passion for later, like when I beat the shit out of you with a Costco-sized bottle of Old Spice bodywash.

I also find it sort of mysterious and retarded when people bond over things like rooting for the same football team.

Bob: GIANTS BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Carl: GIANTS BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Bob/Carl: YEAHAHHDEJGF BRO GIANTS BLAAARGHGHGHDHD BABYYYYYYYYYYY!!!

Like uh, hey, you live in New York and so do the other 17 people in this “Sports bar” where you will ultimately get fucked in the ice cream hole by another dude and blame it on that last Irish car bomb.  I’m sure you didn’t finish high school but really, aren’t the odds pretty good that you’re rooting for the same bunch of retards? Aren’t there only like seven football teams anyway? And who fucking cares in the first place?

Being from the same city or state as another human being is also not something over which to lose your mind or start yelling like your head just got chopped off your neck. I mean it’s one thing to discover you grew up in the same barn as your co-worker, or took the virginity of the same girl (hmmm…?) But being from the same state…. really?

Katie: I’m from Texas.

Fucking Idiot: TEXAS BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! FUCKING GO BIG OR GO HOME TEXAS!

Katie: EVERYTHING’S BIGGER IN TEXAS!!!!!

Fucking Idiot: TEXAS BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Aren’t there more people  [morons] in Texas than in South America? Is it really something to get worked up about? You don’t see me walking up to every woman with brown hair and screaming “BRUNETTES DO IT BETTER BABY!!! BRUNETTES FOR THE WIN! TEAM BRUNETTES!!! WHITE PEOPLE!” etc etc.

Just save it, people. It’s loud, it’s obnoxious, and it burns my ears like the clap is burning your genitals.

office trends #3 – regaling others with the insufferable minutiae of your meaningless tasks – wrong.

The only reason that I currently work, or have ever worked, in an office is because I don’t want to have to eat out of a landfill while I attempt to find a suitable sugar daddy/mommy/pimp. I understand that not everyone can be as ambitious as I am in that respect, and that’s fine.  That’s great.  There are certain folks who take their jobs as Marketing Coordinators, Assistant Sales Managers, Executive Assistants, Spreadsheet Makers, Printer Ink Level Monitors, etc very seriously. They generally lack high school diplomas, complain bitterly about so-and-so’s inability to properly work the postage machine, and are usually any or all of the following: obese, lopsided, midgets, balding, guidos, fake-tanned, fake-nailed, pot-bellied, unhappily married, unhappily divorced, whores.  Basically, they are going to sit in the same stank-ass cloth office chair that reeks of their stale crotch for 35 years, and then die in it, because it’s the best they can do. And that’s fine.  But let’s get one thing straight. Actually, let’s get two things straight. Nothing you’re doing is particularly challenging/interesting/important, and I DON’T FUCKING CARE  ABOUT WHATEVER IT IS YOU DO.

Recently, I learned the term “e-mail courier“. Now there are some people in this universe who deserve to be on death row… child molesters, rapists….trust-fund babies. E-mail couriers fit right in between serial killers and old-people muggers. These are the people who spend 45 minutes writing out some bullshitastic e-mail summing up some worthless task they just completed that nobody else cares about.  Usually it’s something my golden retriever could have handled. They’re so proud of the e-mail that .000007 seconds after they hit send, they launch their fat ass out of their chair-coffin and get all up in your face. “Did you get my e-mail? Did you read it?” What? What e-mail? I haven’t checked my fucking e-mail in like a year and a half because I’m too busy praying that if I stare at my gmail hard enough, I might get an offer to work as a professional beer-taster or napper. So no, I didn’t read your blaaaah blaaaah blaaaaah crap that you’re calling an e-mail, and there is like an 84% chance I’ll never read it, so bye.

Sometimes though, you have to pretend like you’re mildly interested in something or other – mostly just to prevent having a cardboard box for a roof. Maybe I’ll mumble something like “Oh hey did you finish that spreadsheet?” Of course what I’m hoping for is a simple “Yes I did” or “No not yet” or “Do you want some of this booze I keep in my desk?” Unfortunately, I usually get a response that goes something like:

“Yes! It took me 3 days to do. My eyes were glazing over because I just couldn’t look at those numbers anymore, but I persevered (they’ll pronounce this “per-SEV-ered”) and I got through it. What I did was I took the numbers in Row B and the total in cell R86, and I linked them to another tab. It was really complicated but luckily I took a class in Excel in 2006 so I pretty much know all of the secrets, in case you ever need help. So yeah, I just banged it out because if I didn’t bang it out then the entire budget would just fall apart and this company would collapse and burst into flames and smoke, so I finished everything, VOILA!”

Let me make something painfully clear. There is no task in the history of your absurd, useless administrative job that will ever warrant a “VOILA.” There is nothing voila-esque about a spreadsheet or using a copy machine or knowing how to spell check your Microsoft Word document. Get back to me when you land your rocket on Jupiter.

And also: I DON’T CARE HOW BUUUSSSSSYYY you are. First of all, everyone with more than a GED knows that when you frequently refer to yourself as being one thing, you are generally the exact opposite.  If you say you are a great listener, then you probably haven’t heard a word I’ve said to you all year. If you say you are writing a dope song, then what you are writing is likely neither dope nor a song. Maybe it’s a poem for the retarded class or something. If you tell me you are an amazing lover, then you are probably a terrible lover. So if you don’t ever shut your face about how busy you are, then I’m going to assume that you are not busy, have nothing to do, and have an even more meaningless job than I already thought. Usually it goes like this:

“Oh my god, I am soooooo busy! I have to make all of those copies, and then call Richard Jenkins and try to convince him to sell us bulk toner at one cent less than the price we’re paying now. Then I have to alphabetize these names and process an invoice. Then I have a few more things to process and then I have to build the Mayflower and fuck the captain and blah blah blajaahahhjDHFJHSDF”.

Shut up! Shut the fuck up! If you’re so damn busy then get the hell away from me and do whatever it is you are lying about having to do!

Jesus christ, I need to buy a Xanax factory.

expressions that are WRONG.

I was going to try and racially stereotype the kinds of people who use empty, stupid expressions to try and describe some horrible going-on in their delusion of grandeur they call a life.  Unfortunately, it seems to affect all genders, races, and creeds.  Like AIDS. I hate this shit so much, and I may have said some/all of this already, but I’m just going to freaking tell you which expressions and slogans and whatever that make me want to rip your fat face in half.

1. “There’s a new sheriff in town!” Hey cowboy, this is New York City.  I’m pretty sure there’s no sheriff in town.  Unless of course you’re talking about the sheriff of shoving donuts in your fat mouth until they’re coming out your ears. If that’s your new sheriff’s post then full speed ahead, asshole.

2. “Sticking a finger in the dyke” WHAT? How could anyone say that with a straight face? When my boss said this to me, I had to ask my friend what the hell it actually meant, and when she told me, I decided that I don’t care.  I don’t care what it meant in 1942, before lesbians drilled holes in their doors and lumbered out of their closets.  Today, in 2009, it means finger-fucking a lesbian, and that’s all it means.  It’s so graphic that I can smell the salmon. Remember how in 1954, “gay” meant happy? Right, me neither.  The expression might as well be “Sticking the dildo in the chocolate starfish”, or “Sticking the cock in the vagina.”

3. “This pain-killer/oatmeal/condom is 25% more effective.” 25% more effective than WHAT? Like I’ve said a million times, I am no math superstar, but when you have a percentage, and it’s followed by something that means “greater than”, then you have to fucking say what’s on the other side. Is this pain-killer 25% more effective than banging a rock into my uterus until these cramps go away?  Is it 25% more effective than a full hysterectomy? Is your oatmeal 25% more effective than the leading brand at doubling as fake vomit? Is this condom 25% more effective as a water balloon than other kinds?

4. “There is such a thing as being a little bit pregnant.” Three words: No there isn’t.

5. “We gon’ take it to the next level.” Based on my evaluation of the kinds of people who use this one (i.e. P. Diddy, VH1 reality whores, Rachael Ray), I wouldn’t be getting too excited about this “next level”. The next level is like a fucking Dodge Neon, okay? I mean sure, great, you’re not scooting around town on your little sister’s big wheels anymore, but let’s not put the cart before the horse.

6. “Don’t put the cart before the horse.” I have never seen a horse pull a cart. Maybe a carriage. Oh and you know what happened when we put the “carriage” before the horse? WE INVENTED THE CAR, YOU DOUCHEBAG. Way to keep up with the times.

Oh and these are actually just brand advertising slogans, but it pretty much makes me think that planet earth is skyrocketing toward a black hole of total idiocy.

1. Oreida French Fries – “They’re not just alright-a, they’re oreida.”

2. Manwich Sloppy Joes – “You don’t have to be a man to love manwich.”

If we are paying advertising executives with anything other than a group death by stoning, then I demand we immediately cease and desist. Because they’re not just stupid, they’re fucking stupid.

office trends #2 – conference calls – so very WRONG.

One time, I got all four of my wisdom teeth pulled out at once. I spent the next 3 days drooling in a braindead Perkoset daze. Coincidentally, I was actually MORE productive during those 3 days than I or anyone else has ever been during a conference call. I’m sure whoever invented them had good (read: ego-maniacal/finding more opportunities to hear himself talk) intentions, but participating in a conference call is pretty much like attending the audio-only version of the annual moron parade.  The ratio of morons to non-morons in the world at large is so hugely skewed towards morons that 3 heads are not better than 2 heads are not better than 1 head when any and/or all of the heads are rotted out and filled with vanilla pudding and cotton candy instead of brains. And trust me, those are the heads on your conference call.

There are so many problems with conference calls that I barely know where to start.  First of all, if you happen to be an immigrant with sub-par English skills and I can’t understand you when you’re 2 inches away from my face, what the hell makes you think I’m going to have a clue what you’re talking about when you’re 8,000 miles away in your home village on the outskirts of Calcutta, wiping your ass with cow cud and fixing Dells? Newsflash- I don’t know what the fuck you’re saying, Nareesh Patel.  Your accent is NOT TRANSLATABLE over the phone, the end, shut your face.

Also, the first 15 minutes of conference calls are inevitably wasted by either a.) waiting for someone to dial-in, b.) showing your technologically incompetent boss how to dial-in, c.) waiting for everyone to awkwardly say their name, d.) all of the above.  I once had to partake in a weekly conference call that included about 7,904 people.  The role call was longer than 600 vertically stacked black peens.  Here’s what I accomplished during these calls:

• I made arts-and-crafts projects.  My best work was a pencil holder that I welded out of an empty popcorn container. I labeled it Whitney Houston’s Office. I don’t know why.
• I organized gchats with the smattering of other non-idiots on the call in order to bash all of the idiots on the call.
• I learned the ins-and-outs of the mute button.
• I tried to figure out who was breathing like they were in the middle of a fat person’s orgy, who was eating the receiver, why my boss the human megaphone wanted to stand 80 feet away from the phone only to scream into it at such high decibels that her voice became mere static.
• I came up with emergencies to avoid the call.  Emergencies included having to pee for 100 minutes, pretending I was having a miscarriage, pretending I was dead.

Speakerphone is also totally abused.  Here’s s a fun fact for my technologically challenged [read: old] peers- there is no direct relationship between the amount of people to whom you are talking and the volume level at which you need to speak.  My old boss used to raise her voice by 40 decibels for each new person added to the conference call.  She was a natural screamer to begin with, so as soon as there were more than 4 people on the phone at once, she might as well have been shouting into a cheerleading megaphone that was umbilically attached to the telephone.  Because this call happened every week for a year, I am now 57% deaf in my right ear.

I think the biggest problem, though, is that I actually just hate working in an office. I bet burger flippers, pizza delivery people, and hookers never have to get on conference calls.

standing in doorways – wrong.

Why are you standing in the doorway? What node in your tiny brain is malfunctioning so that you think that doorway loitering is a stupendous idea?  I am baffled and stumped by your obtrusive mental deficiencies.  Some things in life are really complicated.  I know that I, for one, will never understand the parabola.  What is it?  Why do we need it?  Is it related to the quadratic equation?  What the fuckity fuck is the quadratic equation, and wouldn’t you say that 99% of human beings never use any math skills they learned post 6th grade?  I would. What I’m saying is that certain types of useless mathematical concepts are complicated, whereas the concept of a doorway is not.

In case you need a refresher, I have mastered the whole doorway thing and can explain through a couple of easy-to-follow guidelines:

1. A doorway is an open area in an otherwise enclosed wall.

2. People enter buildings, stores, offices, supermarkets, bedrooms, hell, J. Crews, temples, harems, etc through these open areas.  You name it, if you can go inside, it probably has a doorway!

3. People exit buildings, stores, offices, supermarkets, bedrooms, hell, J. Crews, temples, harems, etc through these open areas.  You name it, if you can leave, it probably has a doorway!

4. Doorways facilitate motion.  Fat/oblivious/incompetent dolts who stand in doorways are blocking this flow.  Liken this to say, me gluing a brick to your girlfriend’s vagina.  You’re like “Holy shit, I want to get in but I can’t, because this brick is in the way!” Your girlfriend is like “Holy shit, I have to give birth right now, but I can’t because this brick is in the way!” Nothing in, nothing out. Except in the doorway situation, you are the brick and everyone else has a right to blast their theoretical ball and crane into your neanderthal face until you fucking move.

I always have a hard time understanding why people do such clearly imbecilic things, but I have an especially hard time understanding when said imbecilic things directly and negatively affect other people – notably a parade of urban strangers who would rather trample you forty feet underground than be late to work/school/therapy/happy hour. Just as with elevator saunterers, I believe there are a few different types of people who linger in doorways.

1. Those who think they are superior to you and common public conduct requirements. Here we have the average Wall Street douche, rich person, VH1 reality TV star, Ex-Countess LuAnn DeLesseps, the entire Upper East Side, etc. Basic scum of the earth, who love to find strange ways to assert their superiority.  They don’t have to move for you.  You’ll wait until they’re done with their phone call to their business partner [mom]. You can also find them patronizing Starbucks employees, trying to hail cabs from any random black person in a car, and dying alone.

2. Chinese immigrants. Sorry, it’s true.  I understand that personal space is viewed differently in many Asian countries.  So are newborn girls. You’re here now, get out of the doorway.

3. Mildly retarded/Majorly learning disabled folks who have been let out into the “real world.” You know the kid [read: 39 year old borderline-chronic masturbater] bagging your groceries at Shoprite?  He’s standing in the doorway.  So is that one co-worker who doesn’t look anyone in the eye, and plugs his ears, rocks back and forth, and screams during a routine building fire drill.

4. Kids. Kids are always in the way, especially in the doorway.  I blame the parents, but that doesn’t stop me from “pretending” I didn’t see them and stomping their faces into the ground or careening them into the nearest rock-hard wall.

In any event, just get the fuck out the doorway retard.

Tay? I have, like, vertigo. I am dead WRONG.

The Rachel Zoe Project is a pretty amazing project. I watch it every week because it’s so relatable and the stuff they deal with is so important. FASHUN. JORGE ARMANI. (because that’s how they say it in Mexico, which is close to California, which is where this amazing Project-ile Vomit takes place.) This week, RZRachelZoe was curled up in a dryer vent, soaked in her own mosquito sweat and almost-puke. Ever since the media totally accused her of being the mosquito responsible for spreading West Nile virus all across Hollywood and a small section of Calabasas, she had done her best to steer clear of all sickness. But it was obvious that RZRZ was not right and needed to visit the best veterinarian in LA, right quick snap. TayTay, RZRZ’s reliable but perpetually un-showered assistant, arrived just as our little mosquito was about to ferment into an irreversible insect liquid that would be, like literally useless to the FASHUN world. In what was a heroic rescue scene not unlike the daily work of the Police Women of Broward County, TayTay stuck a heap of her already-chewed Chanel chewing gum to a Gucci paper clip, tied it to a J. Mendel string, and shimmied it down the dryer vent. RZRZ mustered just enough strength to grab onto her life raft, and TayTay pulled her out of the vent and into the FASHUN studio.

“RRRRRRRRRaaaaaaaaaaaacccccchhhhhh-ah? Are you, like sssssssssiiiiiiiiiccccckkkk-ah?” TayTay asked. She hated RZRZ with every bone in her body, and was hoping for the worst.

“Tay.”

“RRRRRRaaaaaaccccchhhh-ah?”

“Like, Tay.”

“Ummmmmm…?”

“Tay. Undone. Am I.”

“RRRRRaaaachhhhh-ah?”

“I’m like, literally dying. I’m like, having an internal heart attack.”

It went on like that for a few days. Lots of drooling and inadvertent napping. A little black tar heroin here and there to keep things exciting. But when RZRZ started shitting herself, T-squared remembered there was action to be taken. So she tied a boho-70s-chic leash around her poor boss’s neck, put a lampshade on her head, and headed out to the ER.

While all of this was going on, a pivotal homosexual love affair was taking place in an inordinately spacious closet down the hall. Brattitude the Garden Gnome had been lusting after a certain pointy-noised butt-for-face man whose name rhymes with Shmodger for what seemed like centuries. He’d in the past been too scared to make a move, sticking mostly to helping his dreamlover pick out the perfect blazer/hoodie combo, the right pair of Seven-for-men jeans, the most effective cuticle softener. But the Garden Gnome was experiencing an unprecedented and likely fleeting flash of confidence, gusto, brazen fearlessness. That night, he had brought Dreamlover a pair of argyle socks, made from the softest cashmere . “Why is there only one sock?” DL asked as he reached down to shimmy the sock onto his hideous foot. At that moment, he felt a Gnome-like hand on his thigh. “That’s not exactly the foot I wanted to see the sock on,” he purred. “Model it on your…middle foot.” DL, who had been sleeping with the same little boy for what was becoming a grueling 13 year marriage, was so shocked that he dropped the sock to the ground, dropped his pants, bent over, and spread his ass wide.

Back at the veterinarian’s office, RZRZ was diagnosed with vertigo. In normal folks, vertigo is just a simple imbalance of the ear, and a few days on your average penicillin-type droga will knock that shit right out. But for a mosquito like RZRZ it is apparently a fatal killer not unlike the AIDS or Hitler, and she died right there on the table. T-squared and the vet shrugged, and a vet tech was immediately summoned to perform ritualistic funeral duties, aka flush it down the toilet. T-squared thought about throwing RZRZ a lavish funeral service later on. She knew she could get Jen Garner to conduct the sermon, and Deb Messing might show up to sing badly and crack a tired Jewish joke. But now that RZRZ was dead…….. who would tell them what to wear? A new dilemma, I guess to be solved next week.

Don’t miss this amazing show, paid for in full by career-less Ashton Kutcher.