Thursday, April 29, 2004

You know what I hate?

- Painter's jeans. Only people who are actual tradesmen are allowed to wear these things; all others are fakes and trend-hoppers.

- People who talk overmuch about the weather. This is worst during the winter, when a morning forecast for three inches of snow becomes a blizzard by the evening. It's like Whisper Down the Lane with a madness-causing agent.

- Naming conventions. If I don't find out that there actual African people with made-up-sounding names like Aquanda, Tanisha, and Kia, I'm gonna be really angry. I also hate those names that are adapted from common names with the first letter changed, like Taren or Tevin. I reserve special scorn for common names spelled in an annoyingly quirky fashion, like Sandi and Jacqui. Oh, and hyphenated names? They suck. Ladies, take his name, give him yours, or keep your own, but don't try to act semi-liberated by jamming the two together with a hyphen in the middle. A name like Moss-Coane sort of works (in a way), but Galiano-Bagaglia? No, no, no.

- Dog-owners. Some people have this belief that they know their dogs inside and out, and trust in this belief so well that they let their dogs run attended and unleashed, knowing that the animals pose no danger to anyone. It ain't true. I walk around Bala Cynwyd at lunch, on secluded little streets, and to date I've been threatened by dogs on three separate occasions. One dog wasn't very big but was plenty aggressive, but my bluffing was evidently convincing enough to back it down. The second was a big German Shepherd that was content to drive me away from the house in which it lived (that dog could have done me some damage had it felt perkier that day). The third came right up to me, tail down and growling; this one wasn't fucking around. I took a few swings to drive it back, then dodged away and put a parked car between us. After a minute I moved on, but as soon as I broke cover the dog renewed its assault. I'd had enough, and I charged the little bastard, growling myself. That did the trick, and my foe scampered up onto a lawn and cowered there. Feeling manly, I fixed it with a baleful look and then went on my way. I tell you, if I'm ever bitten, I'm coming back with my car, and either running down the little bastard or beating it to death with the Club. I kid alot on this blog, but I am dead serious. The dog that bites me has bitten its last. Believe it.


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