Everyone picks their nose.
Maybe not with the same frequency or vigor as others, but everyone does it. So quit trying to pretend like your shit don’t stink.
Everyone’s shit stinks.
Posting pictures of your “gourmet” dinner and a flowery description of said dinner on Facebook does not impress me with your culinary skills.
It does, however, impress me with how badly you want attention. Seriously, quit fucking trying to pretend that you didn’t learn the words “braised” and “reduction” from watching nine seasons of Top Chef and spending half of your salary buying quails just so you can feel superior to us poor unsophisticated bumpkins who’ve never seared lamb and served it with polenta. Get over your fucking self. Want to impress me? Make me a fucking grilled cheese at 2am when I’m drunk and bring it to me in bed. That’s fucking impressive.
Cupcake vodka is delicious.
Perhaps not the most efficient road to inebriation and the quickest way to get the guy working the counter at the liquor store to openly judge you, but delicious nonetheless. Mix it with pineapple juice and I’m in girly drink heaven.
I judge you for watching Jersey Shore.
Is it fair? No. I have my own bad tv addictions. (See “Intervention” and “Toddlers and Tiaras.”) Do I judge you anyway? You bet your ass.
Everyone is replaceable.
For everything. At all times. You might think that you’re invaluable and this _______ can’t function without you, but the reality is that they can, and they will. Don’t make them prove it.
Instagram pictures drive me crazy.
Seriously, you just took a perfectly beautiful picture and applied an app to make it look water-damaged. Why the hell would you do that? What’s next, an app that digitally imposes a finger over the viewfinder or closes everyone’s eyes? I know this is just part of the faux-vintage fad that’s so popular with the hipsters, but it makes your pictures look like shit. Stop it.
Dinner isn’t going to make itself.
I tried. I begged. I pleaded. I tried reasoning with it. Not gonna happen. The only way dinner will make itself is if you drink until you forget that Pop Tarts aren’t dinner. Then dinner pretty much makes itself.
Those high water pants that are so fucking fashionable right now? Make you look ridiculous.
Somebody had to say it. It looks like you’re a child who’s outgrown their pants. Are bulgy, diapered asses going to come back into fashion, too?
I don’t like 30 Rock.
I’ve tried. Seriously, I’ve tried. Many, many times. But I just can’t do it. Part of it is the singing. I’m usually okay (not great, but okay,) until they start singing. But where on Scrubs the singing is charming and fun, the singing on 30 Rock just tries to hard. And part of it is its leading lady Ms Lemon. I just can’t take her seriously. Every time I start to like her she does something so weak and childish that it completely undermines any redeeming qualities she once had. Does a sitcom character need to be perfect? Fuck no! Does she need to earn my respect? Yes.
Posing with a handlebar mustache does not make me think that you’re hip or quirky or fun. It does, however, make me want to choke you.
Seriously, $100 to the person who can provide documentation that they personally killed this fucking fad forever.
When you bring you kid somewhere I don’t think they should be I take personal joy in swearing loudly where I know they can hear me.
Keep your panties on, I don’t do this in restaurants or Walmart. I’m not that much of a dick. But if you bring your kid to child-inappropriate places like…say…the bar in the ski lodge, all bets are off, motherfucker. Little Timmy’s about to learn some new words. I can only pray that he debuts them in front of Grandma.