A Comprehensive List of Pet Peeves
I get annoyed a lot. Inside. I try not to let it show. But there are just some things in life that truly irk me to my soul. I don’t want to explode with verbal diarrhea when it happens in front of me so I thought it best to contain it to a useless Internet diatribe hashtagged as #satire.
But it’s not satire. This sh*t really p*sses me off.
If we are friends and you do some of these things, don’t tell me. I won’t like you anymore. I will judge you incessantly for your oddities. And then expect that you don’t judge me for mine (coming in a future post).
If you don’t like me anyway, just do this stuff in front of me. That will take care of it. No need to ghost me. Or provide a half-hearted wave at a cookout. Let’s just end it here. Because there are just some things in life that I can’t accept.
Here’s a partial list:
Smoking (Right Outside of an Entrance)
No, I don’t believe in smoker’s rights. There is nothing I have ever done in public that has been proven to harm everyone around me. Sorry. If you want to kill yourself slowly and greatly increase the chances of a cancerous end, please do it somewhere I can’t smell it.
That does not include your apartment so I smell it in the hallway. That does not include smoking a ciggy seconds before coming in for a meeting. Because, news flash, that smell does not go away. I don’t roll around in pig sh*t before I hit the club and neither should you.
But if you really want to take it to the next level with me, please stand right outside the only entrance to a building, puffing disease into your lungs and making every single person who enters the building smell your future death. And breathe in your death sticks.
I am not making art with resin right outside your workplace. Or cooking meth. Because I know it could kill you. And I don’t want to kill you in the only entry to your work. So why are you doing it to everyone?
Side note: This mostly applies to cigarettes. Although I have never smoked pot, I have no issue with it. But I still don’t want to be forced to inhale it.
Drivers Who Don’t Move at a Green Light Because They are Looking at Their F*cking Phone
It can wait. Really. You don’t need to see what Sally just posted on Instagram. Especially because her fake life is getting super annoying. And you don’t need to check on your texts at the light. The typical light cycle is 120 seconds aka 2 f*cking minutes.
You should know by the 18th time you get honked at that you aren’t any good at doing your phone sh*t at a red light. And what does that say about when you do it when you are driving? We are all in danger. Because you need to crush a Tweet at the light because, “Ugh, all these red lights are so annoying today (include random pic).” Zero likes. Four honks. Move your f*cking car when there is a green light.
And seriously, when I honk at you (and I never honk) and then you give me the finger? It makes me want to run you off the road. Or stop at the next light, grab your phone and feed it to a mountain lion. Sorry, can’t get a hold of Sally unless you want to enter the mouth of the dragon. You actually might do it.
I know. This doesn’t go over well in relationships for me. But I’m 47. Sorry, holding hands is not only not attractive, it’s not comfortable or efficient at all. Have you ever seen people holding hands on a busy street or at a concert or in a crowded place? Think.
It’s limb gymnastics at every turn just to keep that love grip together. And for what? Sweaty palms dry humping each other while making it harder for you to move around? And obstructing others. With your clasp barrier.
Like when you each want to go to a different aisle in the bookstore (when people used to go to those things and not Amazon), but you really don’t want to release your soulmate death grip. Yeah, that’s annoying.
And it doesn’t look good. At least 71% of the time (scientific evidence excluded) one party does not like it as much as the other and keeps switching the bag or phone into the clasped mitt. Until they just quickly switch sides and force it again. What’s it all about anyway?
Loud (Any) Talkers on Their Phone in Public
Let me just remind you of something really important. I don’t give two sh*ts about your conversation with your bro. You don’t need to have it while waiting in line at CVS. P.S. — I see that Rogaine dude. Tell him about that.
I prefer no one ever talk on their phone in a public place, but if you have to at least have some manners. Cup your mouth. Stand in a corner. Do something to show us that you don’t want us all to hear your conversation about how awful your boyfriend is or how drunk you were last night. P.S. — your shirt’s on backwards. Pretty sure you didn’t make it home. We know.
Just shut up. Tone the volume down. Would you ever invite guests over to your house and then stand next to them yelling into a phone. Actually you obviously would or you wouldn’t do it in public. All. The. F*cking. Time.
Absolutely none of us want to listen to your conversation. And we are probably taking video of you so we can mock you later on Twitter. Not sure, but maybe.
A Group Walking Horizontally on a Sidewalk
A distant cousin of hand holding, the street blockers are real. Heads up family. When you have three or more people and you all choose to walk next to each other, no one can get f*cking by you. At all.
And when we try, we hit a mailbox. Or another person who is looking at their phone so hard they don’t even see us. Or you. You’re welcome by the way. They were going to truck you and your party.
When you go four wide, bikers are swerving into the street. Old ladies are falling down manholes. Kids are tripping into newspaper machines. All because of you and your inseparable group line.
It’s called staggering. Two up. Two behind. You can talk later. You are going somewhere, right? When you wait for a reservation do you also block the door and act miffed when we say excuse me? I bet you do. Bastards.
People Who Like to Show You Their Double-Jointed Thumb (and More)
Ick. It really creeps me out when you do that thing with your thumb. It looks like it hurts. And then it makes my thumb hurt. Please stop. It’s only cool when you are like seven.
Also, back crackers for fun. Nope. Not cool. It makes me nervous for you like this time you might get paralyzed. And I would have to say I told you so. Because I didn’t come to the game with you to listen to you crack your back.
Or your knuckles. Please stop. Especially if you can pop them. Because then you move your hands in that way that makes it like your hands are proud of you. They aren’t. You are cracking them. They aren’t happy with you. And neither am I.
I hope only children learn how to do this, but don’t turn your eyelids inside out please. Not ever. Because I don’t need to see your pink inner eye flesh ever in my life. I also worry your eyes might not come back. And again, I told you so.
Go f*ck yourself forever, over and over. Thank God I learned to never answer my phone. Because when you call from the same number every day, I know who you are. And you are a f*cking telemarketer and nobody wants to hear from you. Ever.
Because if I wanted to advertise with Yelp, I would call you. Stop f*cking stalking me. Or the fake debt collector. Or loan processor. Or Google local. You should all get sent to an island and have to call each other all day and listen to each other’s bullsh*t.
Because it all sounds the same. And no one wants to answer. No one is sitting around saying, I hope I get a bunch of robocalls today about really cool stuff that I don’t want and never requested.
People Calling Me Jon (or John) After I Just Introduced Myself as Jonathan
You know I know my own name, right? And it’s likely that I would introduce myself with the name I would like to be called. So then why does this exchange happen all the f*cking time?
You: I’m Clark.
Me: Hey Clark. I’m Jonathan.
You: Hey Jon. Good to meet you.
Me: Go f*ck yourself.
What course teaches people to shorten people’s names to ingratiate yourself to them? I know it’s out there. But it’s the worst. I just told you my f*cking name was Jonathan so why did you immediately call me Jon (or spell me as John, hi Starbucks)?
When you tell me your name is Richard, I don’t just call you Dick because it’s so funny. When you tell me your name is Hannah, I don’t go out on a limb and just call you Banana. Because it’s f*cking stupid. You just told me your name.
Call people the name they introduce themselves as. How hard is this to understand? Do you really think I want you to call me Jon if I introduced myself as Jonathan? Or if that’s the name in my email. “Best, Jonathan” at the end of an email doesn’t engender the response, “Hey John.”
If I wanted you to call me Jon, I would introduce myself to you as Jon.
Uber Driver With a Full Trunk
Dude. Really? I get that you had softball game last night, but my trip to the airport with my kids kind of requires room for bags. And by “room for bags,” I don’t mean on our laps.
It’s cool that you get out to help, but when you pop the trunk you know what’s coming, right? Jostling. And juggling. And a little Tetris. And I want to go to the airport.
It makes me want to give you a 4-star review. But I am probably too nice. Not really. If I am carrying my 49.5 pound on my lap during the ride you are getting 2 stars. Sorry.
Clean your f*cking trunk before you go out on rides. People do have luggage. Or bags. Or other stuff.