Drinking Holidays

Fuck Cinco De Mayo. I don’t mean that to be rude or offensive. I think Mexican people are cool. I think Mexican culture is cool. I think Mexican immigrants are cool. I think Mexican food is really cool. I completely dig Cinco De Mayo, but I hate drinking holidays. More specifically, I hate amateur drinking holidays. St. Patrick’s Day can go get fucked too. It’s a day when your favorite bars will be full of asses who don’t know how to drink but want to pretend that they do. Every bar will be filled with binging middle-aged accountants and Jimmy Buffet fans wearing plastic green hats, getting drunk, telling stories and acting stupid. It will be full of frat boys wearing every stitch of green clothing that they own, establishing the foundations of the lame stories that they’ll embellish and retell later, after they've become binging middle-aged accountants and Jimmy Buffet fans wearing plastic green hats. These fratboys will be there, crowding the space and ruining the ambiance for what could have been a decent night to get buzzed.

I drink like a fish. I don’t need holidays to motivate me. It seems like drinking holidays are just excuses for affluent Caucasians to bar-hop and be obnoxious. The real face of a degenerate parasite is a blue-blooded motherfucker who gets riled up about illegal immigrants and illegal aliens, then puts on a novelty sombrero for a day, gets drunk in public, and acts like ass. OLE!

Three Cunts

There are three cunts at the bar and only one of them is a woman. The other two are men. They were here first and then this woman showed up. They are all friends. She has just bought a new pair of shoes and she is ecstatic. She loves her new shoes so much that she has taken them out of the bag, out of the box, removed the white tissue paper wrapping, and flopped them on the bar for all to see. Apparently, they are the most comfortable shoes in the world. I immediately begin to despair, as I now know that the most comfortable shoes in the world can never belong to me, and that has been one of my lifelong aspirations. Goddamn my luck. Regardless, the other two cunts begin to fawn over her new shoes. They’re gay men. Generally, I’m a big fan of gay men. I tend to be a big fan of anything that challenges or offends tepid, mainstream Christian American values. These two are cunts, however, because they’re shallow, catty, prissy, bitchy, and condescending. Those qualities are repulsive in anybody. I don’t believe that sexual orientation excuses that sort of bullshit. Man or woman, doesn’t matter. I’ve been listening to them talk and now they’re fueling the diluted, content-free, rented identity of this woman. She’s young and pretty and she’s got a few tasteful tattoos on her ankle. They’re some sort of Asian calligraphic symbols. She’s not Asian and I seriously doubt that Asian culture means that much to her. The small tasteful tattoos are absolutely inane. They’re a fashion accessory. Literally translated, they mean, “Fuck you, Japan. We bombed you silly about 50 years ago, and now we’re going to steal and bastardize your culture. It makes me feel enlightened. Would you like fries with that? Please pull around.” She’s also got a hemp necklace containing big, brightly colored glass beads, and a pair of expensive sunglasses worn atop her head to hold back her curly brown hair. Everything the gay men are wearing is expensive, nondescript, and not worth listing. The three of them are complaining about a “frumpy” woman at the gym, who often smells bad and wears ridiculous, unkempt clothes. Everybody at this bar is pretentious and cancerous. I want to cover them with gasoline and burn them all alive. They’re not looking down at this end of the bar. I suspect it’s because they hate us and we don’t belong here. We would not come here if they didn’t have such great beer and pizza at such great prices. It’s so cheap, and so ironic, given that this bar is located in the most expensive part of town. It’s a very posh neighborhood and I guess that explains the clientele. They’re rich, pretentious, bitchy, shallow pieces of shit who have never worked or suffered. They have no permanent sense of identity or lasting content. They’re rented. High rent, but rented. Fortunately, there’s an Internet jukebox with lots of Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, and Kiss, and I have lots of small bills.

Art Directors

There is at least one breed of person that natural selection should have weeded out long ago: the art director. It would seem to me that self-importance is the drug of choice for these creatures. In that way, they have a lot in common with pigs. Pigs, however, do occasionally use their self-importance to serve and protect the community. An art director’s self-importance is only there for the purpose of protecting his right to make six figures without tangible qualification, and sport expensive pre-worn jeans, vintage t-shirts, generic tattoos, ridiculous glasses and retro haircuts. An art director is a hack who is generally creative, in a nebulous, useless kind of way, and lacks the vision and/or fortitude to be an honest artist. None of them have soul. They just want to look like they do, which is appropriate given the nature of their profession.

Advertising

If you work in advertising, the only course of action available to you which will yield sufficient penance for the damage you’ve done to humanity is to take your own life. It’s really the only honorable option you have. A thoroughly sincere and apologetic suicide note, expressing understanding and regret for what you’ve done, will also help leverage people’s forgiveness. Art for the purpose of marketing is such a gross, depraved perversion that rapists and pedophiles look down their noses at the practitioners of this profession. What is an art director but a failed artist with no vision of his own? What is a copy writer but an uninspired writer with no ambition? These are people who are professionally full of shit, parading around in a pretense of creativity. If you can find fulfillment in that, you need to run outside into the real world and ask the first person you see for help. There is no doubt that that person will have a fuller, deeper understanding of the meaning of life than you do. Even if that person is a child, their advice will be worthwhile.

The Waitress

The waitress is beautiful and she hates me. It’s okay. I don’t blame her. I would hate me too. My wife thinks this is all too hilarious. She said it’s what I deserve for staring. The waitress isn’t even waiting on our table. Instead we’ve got some frat boy with a corny goatee. The stunning waitress is waiting on a nearby table but walks by frequently. Her uniform is comprised of a great deal of cloth, keeping her very concealed. It is, however, like an excited child who cannot keep a secret. It pulls tight, relaxes, and lays close across her figure, describing what lies beneath. It’s magnificent. She’s magnificent. She’s caught me looking twice and that’s sufficient to classify me as an asshole. Fair enough. I probably am. Doubtless she’s used to it. My chicken Marsala is here.