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Tag: Fuck You

A Letter to Men Who Wear Their Cell Phones On Their Belts

Dear Men Who Wear Their Cell Phones On Their Belts,

What the fuck are you, fucking Batman? What your pockets aren’t good enough to hold you phone? You need to proudly display the shitty old Nokia you got for free when you signed your 2-year Boost Mobile contract? Is it some sort of status symbol for you that you can own—and display—an item that 900 million other people also own?

I don’t understand at all. I’ve known people who have worn their phones on their belt, but only while they were working. I guess that is sort of acceptable, but I still think the phone should just go in their pocket. Put it in your pocket, guy.

But, you ask, what about those poor unfortunate souls who don’t have pockets? Wait. People are wearing pants without pockets but are still wearing enough of a belt that the can hang their phone? Do you see the essential problem with this? Let me recommend a solid three-step course of action for you if find yourself mired in this existential quandary.

  1. Buy pants that have pockets.
  2. Put those pants on.
  3. Put your cell phone in your pocket.

Three easy steps to success! Do you know what else it will do, MWWTCPOTB? It will help you look like less of an ASSHOLE.

For example, look at this:

This dude looks like an asshole! Why does he need a cell phone on his belt, let alone MANY cell phones!? Can you enlighten me, MWWTCPOTB? No, I didn’t think you could.

Get some pockets, jerk.


The Black Laser.

A letter to Infinite Jest

Dear Infinite Jest,

Well, I’ve finally finished you. It’s been, what, like 8 months? When I started you, you looked like this:

But you were so big and cumbersome that it took me months and months to make it through even a few hundred pages of your massive, dense, nearly-1000 page (without endnotes) bulk. Luckily, bitching about how you hurt my hand on the subway inspired a random Kindle from my mom for Christmas. She offered at the time to buy you again for the Kindle, but I retorted that I already owned you, so why buy another copy? I’ll just finish the paper copy and use the Kindle for other books.

Well that dream didn’t last very long. You were so large that I couldn’t really hold you with one hand on the train, much less flip back and forth from text to endnotes without much difficulty. Lucky were the times I got a seat so I could spread you across my lap and actually read without worrying about letting go of the pole and being tossed on the invariably rough subway ride to or from work. I gave in. I spent the 9.99 on Amazon and bought the Kindle version. When I finished you, you looked like this:

Nevermind the text on the image.

A few weeks ago, after a brunch mandate to stitch & bitch with Jesse (MACHO AS HELL), we found ourselves in the back yard of TBD in my beloved Greenpoint drinking beers and having a sans-women hang out time. It was really nice. As such, we got around to talking about you. But before we get into the whole post of this letter, let me restate something I mentioned in reference to Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth.

I like to work for a book. I really dislike having everything handed to me in tidy pockets of exposition. Nothing pulls me out of a book more than when someone within the first 30 pages stops to explain what they mean but this or that term that the author has created and feels some need to explain directly rather than letting us figure it out like rational, literate adults. I want vagueness and mystery and hints and intentional misdirection. I want to use my brain to participate in unraveling the text. I don’t think that’s so much. In fact, it is the one characteristic that differentiates books into the “enjoyed” pile and “would recommend to someone” pile. Sure, I enjoy books that are quick and hand me things, but only in the way you enjoy popcorn movies filled to the brim with explosions and tits and car chases. They’re little pieces of mental vacation. Think summer blockbuster versus art house.

Infinite Jest, you clearly fit into the “would recommend to someone” category for me. There’s nothing easy about your nearly-1000 pages and I enjoyed the task of deciphering you. You are a specific work of mad genius that I could never ever create. I enjoyed you immensely for all your rambling and wandering and temporal shifts and insane characters and plotless plot and asides and footnotes and nonsense and magical realism. It is clear to me that you are an intensely personal work by someone who was a tragic loss.

And then the other day on the subway I finished you. And all I have to say is fuck you, Infinite Jest. Fuck you with a knife and die. I’m all right with vague endings and I have never minded leaving questions unanswered at the end of a book, but this was too much. I felt like we’d stopped 100 pages before the book should have actually ended. In a flashback nonetheless. Total bullshit.

So, fuck you for making me feel like I didn’t get it. And fuck you for making me want to read you again so I pick up all the clues I missed the first time through. Fuck you. I love you. I haven’t been left wanting more so badly by an ending since I finished Neal Stephenson’s Anathem (which I thought I discussed here, but cannot find record of).

Fuck you, I love, and oh my god I am so sorry.


The Black Laser.

Cee Lo’s “Fuck You!” – Take 2


Remember this? Yeah, you do. Well, today the official video for the song dropped on Facebook for some reason, but because I am a super elite computerbox hacker, I am able to post it for all you lovely, lonely souls here. Enjoy!

Oh…and, uh, fuck you, too, eh?

A Letter to the Hospital Where I Was Supposed to Have Surgery This Friday but Am Not and To My Doctor’s Office For Not Letting Me Know Until I Called This Morning.

Dear you all,

Seriously, I am annoyed.

Regular readers of this site know of my troubles with strep throat not just this year but over most of my life. I’ve mentioned the issue here before. Luckily, I’ve not gotten sick in a few months which I associate with…uh…pretty much pure luck. Such things are a mystery to me.

Earlier this summer, the whole ordeal reached a point where taking my tonsils out made sense. We went through all the motions, remember?, of setting up a date and dealing with insurance and all sorts of crap. I originally wanted them yanked before I went to California for June, but that didn’t fit into the doctor’s schedule, so I went with August 13th. The astute of you out there will realize that August 13th is the coming Friday. Very soon, I know!

When I hadn’t heard from the doctor’s office last Thursday, I started to get worried. Why hadn’t they called me? Had they forgotten? Where was I supposed to go? Did I have prescriptions to fill out? When should I be there? With these fairly important questions in mind, I called this morning. This is how it went, if you don’t remember.

Me: Hi! I’m having surgery this Friday and I was just, you know, wondering where I should go and all.
Them: Oh, let me check….what was your name again?
Me: Joseph Dillingham.
Them: Oh. Uh, I need to call you back.
Me: Of course.

I do some work, drink some coffee, and then my phone rings.

Me: Hello?
Them: Hi Joseph, this is your doctor’s office calling.
Me: Hi! What’s up?
Them: So there’s been a mix up at the hospital and the room we were trying to get for you has been taken by another doctor.
Me: And what, exactly, does that mean?
Them: It means there’s no slot for you this Friday.
Me: Well, that’s bullshit.
Them: Yes, I’m sorry, but the doctor doesn’t get a preferred slot there and if some other doctor who does wants to come in and operate, we get bumped.
Me: That’s complete and utter bullshit.
Them: The best we can do is offer you September 3rd.
Me: But I’ve already been put on hold for September…fuck. Ok, put me in for the 3rd and, you know what, I don’t even know if I’m going to take it then, but put me down and fuck the hospital. We’ll treat them like they’ve treated me.

It wasn’t until I was off the phone—l’esprit de l’escalier strikes again!—that I realized that THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS IN THE DOCTOR’S OFFICE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN THIS BEFORE NOW. What the fucking fuck?! Fucking hell guys. I know you’re human, but if I dropped the ball like this for something my client was expecting my ass would be grass. And that’s just commercials! We’re talking about my throat here. God damn!

Go health care!

The reality is though that Sept 3rd is fine. It makes my finances a little more stressful than they needed to be, but I have some projects on the horizon which will hopefully turn into money. And, shit, I can cut when my throat hurts and I am recovering, so whatever. But still. I’ve been planning this all summer and it’s drag to have the proverbial rug pulled out from under me at the eleventh hour. How many more idioms can I pack into that last sentence?


The Black Laser.

PS – Fuck you.

These people are complete fucking idiots.

‘Oral sex’ definition prompts dictionary ban in US schools

The article speaks for itself.

Idiocy 1, Learning 0.

Are you guys fucking kidding me?

See this?

Do you know what this is? If you’ve been keeping up on all the blogs, you do, but let me illuminate you in case you haven’t. This magical little turd is the new SARCASM PUNCTUATION MARK which you can buy from US-based Sarcasm Inc., whose site is down right now, for use on the Mac, Windows, the iPhone, Blackberry, whatever.

Seriously, guys? Are you kidding me? That is the stupidest fucking idea ever. I’m not even going to indulge these people by posting sarcastic remarks in this post. Do we really need to dignify sarcasm with a brand new punctuation mark? And do we really need to BUY IT? I’m pretty sure I get all my cues regarding whether or not a statement is sarcastic from context, just as people have done it since the beginning of verbal communication. No doubt sarcasm has been around that long.

What’s next? The irony mark? Maybe a schadenfreude mark? How about a mark to indicate that I’m writing something in an e-mail to someone that I don’t really care about but feel obligated to explain so that they’re not confused even though it would only take them two minutes to research it on Google? Give me a fucking break. As David Lynch said, “Get real.” How about you learn to insert the proper clues into the text to indicate that you are being sarcastic? If you can’t do that, it’s probably best to leave the fucking sarcasm out of your work e-mails. Stick to declarative statements and everything will be just fine.

A letter to the MTA regarding an unfortunate situation in the downtown 23rd Street F/V station.

Dear Metropolitan Transit Authority,

I understand that you are currently very busy in Albany trying to fleece New Yorkers for every last nickel and dime in our pockets while cutting service and overall making our lives hell. This is an admirable goal and one of which I am fond. Lining your own pockets through graft and corruption at the expense of hard working people in and around New York City should be your number one concern. Assuming that New York could ever have a public transportation system that was both useful and efficient is far too much. Surely that Herculean task can only be accomplished in such fantastical countries as Germany, France, and Japan. For this you are forgiven.

My specific complaint is regarding a lingering odor in the downtown 23rd St station for the F and V trains. If you walk through the turnstiles and make a right, about 1/3 of the way to the end there is a 15 foot stretch along the tracks where air comes down from the street that smells like shit. And I don’t mean that it just smells bad. It does that, but what I mean is that it actually smells like fucking shit. (Note, I am not referring to the scent raised by copulating with feces, rather I use the word fucking in its pejorative sense to express the intensity of my negative feelings about the smell.) Sometimes the odor resembles horse shit, while at others it’s more reminiscent of toxic human shit. Regardless of its current parfum du jour, it’s quite unpleasant. I do understand that this city is filled with surprising pockets of wretched stench sometimes so overbearing as to cause my eyes to water, but to have to endure the stomach churning stink of excrement every day in the subway after work on my way home is just plain unbearable.

Please rectify this situation.

Sincerely, a distraught rider,

Joe Dillingham.

PS – I don’t forgive you.