Let me just set the overall tone for this site. Two themes: I'm pissed and I don't care what you think. If you think you can keep that straight, great. We'll have no interaction and, therefore, we will get along just fine. If you can't, well, blow me.


Ground Rules

Fresh Fury

Almanac of Hate

Rage Ranked Rants

Site search

Admin

Other Links

Backtalk from the Peanut Gallery

Today’s


(Don't be an illiterate rube...click on it. Opens in a new window.)

Fast Food

First of all, there’s nothing fast about fast food. Let’s just get that misconception cleared up. What’s fast about going into a “restaurant” only to see some useless cluck with his/her head resting on the cash register with eyes shut? Yeah, I’ve seen it. Not a pretty sight. Yet the fast food restaurateurs hire these useless buffoons to “serve” us. Right.

I went to the drive-thru the other day to pick up a quick breakfast. First mistake. What I failed to remember is that there is no such thing as a “fast food” restaurant. I ordered two items: an egg muffin (sic) and a hash brown. That’s it. Nothing more. No value meal. No drink. Just two items. Yet after paying for the meal at the first window, I drive up to the next window to pick up my order. Well, that was my second mistake in judgment (the first, of course, was going there to begin with). When I arrive, the “useless buffoon” says my cheeseburger isn’t ready, to which I replied “I didn’t order a cheeseburger. She laughs, obviously a little flustered and a lot confused. Next, she grabs a bag and says she was waiting on my hash brown and hands me the bag. Then she asks what kind of drink I wanted. I wanted none, for I did not order one. Had I ordered and paid for one, I would have expected one. Alas, I did not. I informed her as such. She hands me the bag and I go about my business, heading to the office. When I get there, I was pleased to see that only the egg muffin (sic) was in the bag. How was that possible? Two items: three mistakes.

Recap:
1. I did not order a cheeseburger, but she asked about one.
2. I did not order a drink, but she asked about one.
3. I did order a hash brown, but didn’t receive one.

If I had ordered one item, would they have given me an empty bag? That’s a legitimate question. I ordered only two items, yet they still managed to short me one of them. All the while, she was mentioning how she was waiting on the hash brown. She even acknowledged the very item that she was shorting me. Utterly incomprehensible. Yes Virginia, there are people just that stupid, and they work at McCluck’s!

I would love to know just how much money McCluck’s and the assorted others are making off the weary consumer with their consistent shorting of items paid for. For mistakes are never—NEVER—made in the consumer’s favor. It must be a sizeable fortune, otherwise they would have rectified the problem years ago…you know, when service was still considered important to the then fast food restaurateur.

Let’s talk about “service.” On another visit to McCluck’s, one of the counter “help” (and I use that term with ironic dismissal) positioned herself ready to serve behind the register. This eager beaver was in the ready position characterized by having her eyes closed with her empty head lying atop and her arm draped over the cash register. She looked like a drunk who had just been rolled. Throughout the entire ordering process, she never once raised her head.

Where are the pink slips? Where is the manager who sees this buffoonery and tells her “it’s time to go home—permanently?” Perhaps this new customer service procedure has been added to the Shamburger University curriculum.

Voice Mail (Auto Attendants)

People are in love with the sound of their own voices. Nowhere is that more evident than voice mail systems, or as the fatuous telecommunications industry has dubbed the newest generation: “auto attendants.” Of course, an auto attendant is a euphemism for “we’re too cheap to hire a human being to answer your call, so we invested in this circuitous, mind-numbing virtual rat maze intentionally designed to piss you off” system.

So what’s the fundamental failure? That’s simple. You can narrow it down to several factors:

  1. No human being. When I call in and reach an auto attendant system, the first thing I try to do is bypass the system altogether and get hold of a human being. From experience, I know that not only will the auto attendant system failure me in my quest, but it will take an extraordinarily long time to achieve failure.
  2. Diarrhea of the mouth. Invariably, the script for the auto attendant is laden with useless, self-absorbed blather. Essentially, it is nothing more than the gluttonous compounding of useless information forced down my throat like a 300-pound, bib overall-wearing tank scarfing down endless mounds of fried chicken, whole sticks of butter and cinnamon rolls at Hometown Buffet.
  3. Cumbersome and circuitous structure.
    So what’s the cure? That’s easy. Scrap it and hire a receptionist. Problem solved. Period.

Engineers vs. Bean Counters

So I bought a 12 pack of crisp, refreshing Diet Pepsi and a 12 pack of thirst quenching Diet Mountain Dew for the office—you know, the ones that are configured as long rectangles to fit conveniently into your refrigerator—because it’s all about convenience; it’s all about me, the customer. Collecting my things, I see that the end flaps came unglued on one end of the Diet Mountain Dew package, so I held both packages upright. Well, no sooner did I get out the car, the other end blew out and the sodas tumbled to the ground. I hear lots of fizzing. So, I put my other things down on the ground and start collecting the cans. My hands would have been full with everything I had, so I started stuffing cans into my coat pockets, but that strategy would only accommodate four cans. I remembered that I had some grocery bags in the trunk of my car, so I retrieved one. I load the cans into the bag, collect the other 12 pack as well as my other things and I start making my way to the indoors. I got about 20 feet before the bottom blew out of the bag and the sodas, determined to stay on the ground, began falling. I hear fizzing again. As you can imagine, I’m pretty happy at this point and my kind and gentle words reflected this ebullient attitude. Anyway, I put all my things down again, collapsed the fizzing cans underfoot—sans expletive, of course—and discarded the fallen beverages. I then made my way back to the car. To my good fortune, I had another bag: a much sturdier department store bag. I was ecstatic. I made my way back to my diminishing pile of unscathed beverage product and began loading cans again. Success! All packed up and ready to go. So, I collect everything up again and once again continued on my quest to get out of the 12-degree weather and into the inviting warmth of my office. Well, I made it about five steps and the side blew out of bag #2. Fantastic! I was hoping that would happen. Why you ask? Well, because I like to challenge myself in every facet of my life—even in the mundane. Once again, I collect the errant cans and held the bag such that the split side was secure within my grasp. I pick up the rest of the material, and once again, continue on my journey. Five more steps into my trek and the bottom blows out on the second 12-pack. Again, I find myself putting things down and loading cans into an inadequate container. Completing that task, I collect everything up again. I’m holding the bag with the split side secure in my grasp and the second 12-pack I have cradled in my arm in a vertical position. To my surprise, after only 12 minutes of dropping cans, picking up cans, dropping cans, picking up cans, etc., I am finally able to get into my office. Amazingly, it only took twelve times longer than normal! As an added bonus, I had 21 out of 24 cans in consumable condition! Obviously, that’s a much higher number than I would expect to have survived during a trip from my car to my office on a normal day.

So what does this have to do with engineers and bean counters? That’s simple. Engineers are responsible for the quality of the products they design and their company ultimately produces. In this case, it’s not the actual product that’s found lacking; it’s the product’s packaging and the tool used to transport said product. It’s inexcusable that a product’s container virtually collapses under its own weight. Having not the ability to withstand the rigors of actually lifting a product for movement elsewhere—stressful as that may be—is design failure, pure and simple.

Bean counters most assuredly share in the blame, as they will almost always sacrifice quality for margin. Moreover, in a concerted effort to shave off even the most minute cost from producing a product, they will target a component of a product’s manufacture that they believe is superfluous—like glue to hold it together—and they will strong arm engineering until they capitulate to their Stalinist demands. For the most part, there’s no doubt that engineers are more than capable of producing quality products. There’s no shortage of brainpower in the private sector. Like the products they design, the system collapses when milquetoast engineers gather up their years of training and experience and, along with their balls, set those crucial components aside, cowering in fear of the bottom line and the cycloptic suits  who wield it like a weapon. Under this paradigm, product obsolescence begins before its purchase.

So, what engineering ingenuity would be required to resolve this crumbling carton issue? —Apply the necessary amount of glue to the carton’s end flap. And what insurmountable barrier stands between task and success? —Cost. Well, make that cost and balls, or lack thereof, rather (you may have noticed that missing the critical link between man and balls is a dominant theme in this work). Apparently, it takes the balls of Zeus to wage a battle of principle for what is right and what is necessary, even with something so mundane as gluing a package together.

Political Correctness

With the exception of the gelding curse, the most debilitating cancer to American culture is the perverse idea of political correctness. Inexplicably, the odd teaming of geldings, minorities, and “special interest” groups has embedded a strangulating, self-policing culture of restraint and freedom from speech attitude in the American populous that has derailed the free exchange of ideas, thoughts, and expressions—good or bad. Precipitously, after the conceptual adoption of restricted speech, the practice has further evolved to selective restriction of speech.

I’m here to trounce that practice. I am hereby flipping the bird to all the fringe pink boa-wearing freaks, minority leaders, religious intolerants, and overly sensitive emasculates whose constitutions are too weak to endure sharp words, but not too weak to dole them out.

You cannot infringe on my constitutionally guaranteed right of free speech nor will I be intimidated by your intolerance. Furthermore, as is so frequently demanded (and therefore rendered meaningless upon delivery), I will not apologize for my words. Tough. Get over it. Wipe off your tears and go away. Try to bitch slap me all you want, but I will let you know it if I tire of hearing you define yourself by your unnatural sexuality, watching you dance around in the streets with nary a stitch of clothing save a pair of ass-less chaps, or cringing over your assertion that I am somehow responsible for the actions of America’s forebears. And I will do so with impunity.

Whereas we all have the right to voice our opinions, you do not have a right not to have them expressed if they somehow offend you. Even at a time of mourning, the family of a fallen soldier does not have the right not to be burdened with the disgraceful words of some fringe religious freaks (God-fearing Christians?) who speak out against the deceased. Like the bereaved family, the PC fascists do not have the right to be shielded from speech against them (perceived or otherwise). In a free society, you have to take the good with the bad. Case in point: I’ve had to tolerate watching behavior that I find offensive and listening to disturbing rants from morally and generally repugnant individuals. I’ve had to listen to the agenda-driven words and ideas that I find personally and morally offensive, as well as downright disturbing. Certainly, those same individuals enjoy no special privilege that would bar me from voicing my own opinions about them.

Though you have the right to express your view—that everyone should adhere to your twisted value system and be silent on issues about which you cannot defend—I have an equal right to ignore you like the bum on the street panhandling for unearned cash. Did I say, “bum?” Why, that’s politically incorrect. Well, if it’s dressed in rags, smells like a sewer, and has the teeth of a Briton, then it’s probably a bum.

Political correctness (along with the systematic emasculation of the American male) has driven our culture into near extinction, the long-term effects of which will soon be felt. By its very nature, it is restrictive. And by definition, selective restriction on any speech renders speech to be not free. As a product of political correctness, American society in the 21st century is censored, constrained, and to a growing extent, fascist.

Geldings

Geldings are a curse to man. And in this case, I’m not using “man” to refer to all of humankind. Rather, I use it to refer to men, real men, men of substance and conviction, men with opinions who are not afraid to voice them. Men have backbones and they are, in fact, part of a vanishing breed. Soon, reproduction of the human race will have to be accomplished through artificial insemination using sperm remnants left unclaimed and frozen in clinics across the nation. When that finite supply is exhausted, cloning techniques will undoubtedly be employed. Unfortunately, there are no nature lovers uniting their efforts to save this endangered species. That stands to reason when you consider that those who typically huddle in groups trying to protect some variant of the pilgrim mouse (or whatever…don’t bother correcting me because I just don’t give a damn) in the Northern Territories are the very geldings with whom they’re being replaced. Moreover, there is an insidious movement afoot to replace these “men” with Frenchmen or “French males,” rather. French males may possess the physical characteristics of men (testicles), but they lack the critical component that defines true men: balls. With rugged individualism and immutable opinion at its core, “balls” is pure attitude. When faced with risk, geldings move in herds; men will go it alone, if need be.

As mentioned earlier, geldings take on many forms. Some geldings you can spot without even conversing or interacting with him. I’ll just lay it on the table and dispel a popular myth—a myth originated and propagated by geldings, by the way. Yes, you can judge a book by its cover. You can spot one gelding variant simply by the way “he’s” dressed and how “he” carries himself. A beret, a goofy smile, a feminine gait in his step, perhaps even a scarf to complete some fashionable ensemble; all are telltale signs of a gelding. But no righteous beating, no matter how severe, is capable of giving these people that which they desperately need: self-respect. Other geldings, however, are more low-key and are either ashamed or embarrassed to advertise their male-compromised condition. These are the browbeaten husbands who lost their independence, tenacity, and vigor to their wives years earlier.

Though geldings have wholeheartedly embraced and championed the concept of the “sensitive man,” whoever thought it was a good idea to instill sensitivity in a man in the first place? Countless metaphors like square peg in a round hole and that of oil and water come to mind. The ill-conceived notion of the “sensitive man” doesn’t work because it wasn’t meant to work. It’s an oxymoron. It’s like trying to build a city below sea level and expect everything to remain safe and dry in the coming years. Oh wait somebody did that. Am I wrong or did that fail, too? No, the only males who embrace this tact are those who have long ago surrendered their manhood and now don the beret.

I’m ashamed to admit that there was a time in my own life that I was a sensitive guy. I don’t know how many times people would just walk up to me on the street—people who I’d never before met—and tell me that I had a look of great compassion and empathy and they were compelled to let me know. Of course, being a man of great sensitivity, I responded by kneeing them in their groin and screaming that if I wanted to be accosted on the street by some Kumbaya-singing, group-hugging liberal, I’d have gone to San Francisco and walked around with my pants around my ankles. It was then that I concluded that the sensitivity thing just wasn’t for me anymore—the emotional strain was just too great, and after all, it was tough on the vocal chords.

It wasn’t always this way. Obviously, there was a time in this country when we were free of this pestilence. Obviously, you ask? Absolutely. The evidence is clear. All one has to do is look at the founding of our country. Angry men founded this country, deciding that they would no longer tolerate the abuses of English (and not just “verbal abuses,” mind you—a situation devastating to your typical gelding). These were not the acts of complacent and capricious, milquetoast eunuchs whose singular vision centers on their own deviant sexuality. These were the actions of men who were willing to engage in war to free them of tyranny and create a sovereign nation. War, in and of itself, is a concept so contemptible and so uniquely unpalatable to geldings that they would never even consider engaging in such an enterprise. Geldings are content to reap the benefits of the sacrifice of determined men and then criticize those who provided the spoils. War is the domain of men…angry men.

So what were the origins of the geldings’ insidious infestation into the American male value system? The answer to that question is simple. One just has to look to the most chaotic and least purposeful era in our history: the sixties. It was during this regrettable era that the seeds were sown for weak-kneed dominance of the American male psyche. Capricious lifestyles, pointless pursuits, and a focus on hedonistic satiation effectively disarmed men of their conviction and their relentless drive to win, leaving them with only a pot- and drug-induced haze to fill the void. As they numbed their minds from the horrors of personal responsibility, women’s and gay rights groups rallied their forces and took full advantage of the unprotected left flank of American male virility, moving in with unparalleled focus and voracity. Within a single generation, geldings displaced real American men and their uncompromising values of individualism and winning with groupthink, consensus, and paralyzing political correctness.