Category Archives: Annoying

If I Were Mark Zuckerberg


The ZuckerBurger


See? We look alike.

Let’s get one thing straight from the start: I love Facebook. I adore it. Je’taime Facebook. Why? Simple. The reason it was created. The original intention. I get to keep in touch with family and friends that I don’t see often or ever without traveling or, God Forbid, phoning. Courier Pigeon, anyone? I’m not hatin’ on the Zuck or his brainchild.

So that’s out of the way. Now, there is one huge issue with Facebook. One really friggin’ annoying issue… Zuckerberg didn’t think to set RULES for posting. We are all but lemmings following suit and without guidance as to appropriate social interaction via the Internet, we end up saying things like, “I ate pie. Vagina. My trees are lush.”

If I were Mark Zuckerfucker, I would have well-established guidelines for anyone with a FB profile. If you don’t follow those guidelines, you are booted off the site and also, fire ants are released down the crack of your bum.

If I were Mark ZitiMarinara, I would enforce these rules to ensure that Facebook stays the social media channel of choice because it has the balance we all seek between trash and news, between levity and reality, between cats playing the piano and up to the minute coverage of political revolutions.

If I were Mark Zuckerballin, these would be my Facebook rules:

Selfies – You may post one selfie per week. The correct number of selfies has been well-tested and… One per week, people. That’s it. By well-tested, I’m referring to the unfunded, unprofessional and unsolicited social experiment that my friend and I conducted. If your selfie involves premeditated props, outfits, staging and professional lighting, you are simply a douchebag and your FB “friends” are sharing that photo with horrible captions via Messenger.

Lurkers – This is Facebook, not Stalkerbook or Creeperbook or SingleWhiteFemaleBook. Let’s see your face. Read your comments. In the sage words of Vanilla Ice, “Stop, Collaborate and Listen.” Don’t be a voyeur. What are you afraid of? Interact. Be part of the community or stop looking at our #TBT photos and judging how we’ve aged.

Kids – Your kids are adorable. We want to read what ridiculous nonsense they say that makes us all chuckle and go, “Kids say the darnedest things!” in our best pre-sex offender Bill Cosby impersonation. We want to see pictures of them in capes and high heels and a ladle on their head. We do not, however, want to read a 12 Act play of their dialogue and we don’t need a daily blow by blow of their activities. We don’t need pictures when they wake up, eat their breakfast, drop a twosy …

Crossfit – Stop it. When you post how many squat drop diddles you do, we all want to throw a dumbbell at your privates. We don’t need your menu de jour of planks and squats and tippy toe touches. You drank the Kool-Aid; we get it.

Food – Great! You tried a new recipe. Awesome. Found a new healthier alternative to chocolate cake? Sweet – tell us. Once in awhile. Daily pictures of your three meals and 2 healthy snacks per day are too much. Discussing your cooking methods in such depth that I know how many times you stirred your spatula; that is more than too much. You have a Bobby Flay complex. I just created that… The APA may want to consider adding it.

Games – Go ahead; invite me to play Candy Crush one more time… I dare you. When I get a notification that someone invited me to play a game, I literally want to blow up the world. That might sound extreme, but after you decline for the 937th time, it becomes a realistic and seemingly plausible plan. Certainly justifiable.

Negative Nancy – We all have bad days. We all get our britches in a bunch because of bad customer service. We all have been the recipient of someone else’s bad mood. And we all want a little dose of “misery loves company” to elevate our outlook. That being said, if your posting becomes more depressing than a handful of downers, you should seek other sources for empathy. A therapist may be a good place to start. The rest of FacebookLand is just trying to muddle along in clouds of cotton candy and rivers of fruit punch and you’re jacking up our vibe.

Sad Stuff – Don’t post it unless it is actually going to help someone. If you are only posting it because you are the Negative Nancy from above, stop that shit, and stop it now. If, however, you have to post something sad for truly good reasons, you still must counteract with something happy within the next few days. We need to know you’re ok. We’re not heartless, just judgmental.

Sharing Funny Videos – If you share an already viral video, it better be funny. I mean damn funny. I mean make us laugh so hard that tears come from our eyes and pee from our respective gender parts. Because chances are good that said video has appeared and auto played in each of our feeds about 50 times already. So speaking for myself, if I have to see it AGAIN, it better be the kind of thing that makes me spontaneously laugh days later when I’m at the Sonic drive-thru and the employee thinks I’m ordering a large, unsweetened BWAAAAHAAAHAAA.

So there you have it. If I were Mark ZippySnatcher, these would be my rules and Facebook would be a better social forum because of it. Don’t you think? Now if you will excuse me, I have to post a selfie with my kid playing Candy Crush and eating the gourmet Gluten-Free waffle I’ve just made before I go to the gym 😉 What?!? If I were Mark Zucklymooker, I wouldn’t have to follow my own rules… Damn, bitch, I’m worth like $8 trillion.


Gym Attire and Why Yours is Wrong

I have a lot of thoughts about the gym. Actually, I would say that if I’m being honest, my judgments thoughts are geared more towards the gym-goers. I have thoughts on the guttural noises they make. I have thoughts on their training methodology. I have thoughts on their hygiene or more often, lack thereof. Right now, though, I would like to focus solely on gym-goers and their choices of attire.

Seeing as I joined a gym four (4) whole months ago, my tenure obviously makes me amply qualified to judge comment on this realm of fashion. For the remainder of this post, the gym-goer shall be referred to as GG. Here are some of the main offenders in no particular order:

  • The GG that wears a shirt to the gym that has another gym’s logo on it. This is the equivalent of wearing a Harvard sweatshirt while attending classes at Yale. Someone’s definitely going to give you a swirly.
  • The GG that weight-trains in huge neon yellow, zebra-striped harem pants. I do not understand the function of these. I do not understand their ostentatious pattern. I do not understand where you even purchase such atrocities.

  • The GG that barely wears anything at all. Pssst… I can see your hooters and/or your Netherworld and I didn’t ask to. If you are this GG and you are male, nobody (and I mean nobody) of either gender takes notice of you in a flattering way. If anyone is looking at you, it is most likely that they are waiting for the right time to snap an Instagram and plaster it all over social media with a caption that reads, “I can see this guy’s junk and it ain’t pretty.”

    If you are this GG and you are female, (wo)men may come on to you but they are most likely married and going through a mid-life crisis or a minor and going through puberty. Other normally-clad women will find ways to inauspiciously throw metal-tipped darts at your boobies in hopes of popping the silicone. And yes, every woman carries metal-tipped darts to the gym. They are right next to the deodorant in our gym bags.

  • The GG that wears yoga attire even when they aren’t taking a yoga class. We get it. You shop at Whole Foods. You are flexible and make love not war. You can stand on one foot for inordinately long periods of time while breathing deeply. But can you lift this dumbbell that I’m about to throw at your head? Can you do the elliptical to the beat of any Chris Brown song without falling off? Put that in your downward dog and smoke it.
  • The GG that wears new, coordinating designer brand ensembles. This tells the world that you spend more time shopping for your gym clothes than you do actually going to the gym. And that tells the world that you are spoiled. And that makes the world not like you. Come to think of it, you look awfully familiar… And I could swear I’ve seen your vagina getting out of a car before… Paris Hilton, what are you doing at my gym?

Some additional words of advice on the topic:

  • You do not need to wear a fanny pack.
  • You do not need to wear a belt that has holsters for water bottles.
  • You do not need to wear a visor indoors.
  • You do not need to wear leg warmers.
  • You do not need to wear a sports bra if you are a man.

Now if I’m missing anything feel free to comment and let me know. Additionally, if you are one of the aforementioned offending GG’s and you genuinely seek counsel on the proper attire, also feel free to comment and I will guide you in the direction of being completely inconspicuous at the gym. As always,





Nervous Laughter

I laugh a lot. All the time, even when I shouldn’t. If laughter is the spice of life then my life is the hottest, “sign-a-waiver chicken wing” SPICY! My normal laughter sounds, well, normal. Varies in intensity, generally robust and of an average tonal quality that doesn’t cause people to run their nails down a chalkboard to escape its sound. That is my normal laughter.

Now, my nervous laughter, on the other hand… Whenever I hear my own nervous laughter, I have to resist the urge to punch myself in the face. It doesn’t even sound like me. When did Fran Drescher and Homer Simpson mate and produce an offspring that has now inhabited my body and is taking over my laughter?

Is it that bad? Yes. It sounds like a cross between a braying donkey and a giggling toddler. A monkey in heat and a smoker’s cough…

Cute donkey.

Cute donkey.

It isn’t alone either. My nervous laughter has an entourage. It is usually accompanied by some additional, equally unattractive sound effects. Snorting, guffawing and loud inhalations/exhalations join in to form a united front of embarrassing chortles.

And it can’t be stopped. When I’m talking and I get nervous, my foreign laughter punctuates each.and.every.sentence. Once I’ve got the nervous giggles, short of tearing out my larynx, the only thing I can do is officially exit the situation before I can exorcise this sound. Demons and all Drescher/Simpson offspring out!

To my good fortune, it is mostly when I’m on the phone that this happens and I can hide behind an invisible connection. I guess the lesson learned is don’t count your chickens before they hatch. Or is it an apple a day keeps the doctor away? Or maybe it’s if you make me nervous, you will pay with bleeding eardrums. Right? Is that your take away? Hmmm…