Category — Just plain weird

My deepest apologies Rantopolis readers.

Things have been so insane in Rantopolis land that I have not found time to post all month.  (My absence on this blog has even prompted long-time friends to call wondering if something bad had happened.)

You like me.  You really like me.  (With credit, of course, to Sally Field.)

Now, that I have confirmed that I am alive and well, I am going to try to make up for lost time.  (Even though I haven’t been writing, I have still been gathering blog topics.  Here comes the first one.)

What’s with people that confuse their airplane seat with their bathroom?!  May I enter exhibit A your honor?

No, they didn't really have marshmallow faces. I never said I was a PhotoShop expert.

A few weeks ago, I boarded a flight from Chicago to Las Vegas.  (Business trip, not pleasure.  My huge distaste for Vegas would never put a trip there into the pleasure category.)

A few minutes after claiming my seat, the guy across the aisle starts eating his dinner.  And by eating , mean gnawing.  And by dinner, I mean his finger nails and cuticles.

This guy starts attacking ends of his digits like a piranha.  Clearly not caring, or perhaps oblivious,  that other human beings were a few feet away from him.

He would bite, pull, chew and repeat.  I would gag, avert my gaze and pray that he would stop.  Finally, after ripping off every possible piece of flesh and nail that he could clamp onto, he stopped.

I sank bank into my seat and breathed a sigh of relief.  I had about 10 seconds of respite.  Then the guy in front of him started biting his nails.

I knew at that moment I was in the Compulisive Nail Biting Twilight Zone.  Ahead of me was a three-plus hour flight with freekish nailivores in my sightlines.

People with weird habits, I have to ask you.  Are you in a hypnotic trance?  Did someone drug you?  Those are the only reasons I can come up with to explain your inability to recognize that you are in a public place.

Newsflash. Strangers can actually watch you engaging in your gross, obsessive little habit.  (You should be deliriously happy projectile vomiting didn’t come your way.)

So, here are the rules going forward.  If you do weird, freaky things in public places and I see you, I will definitely write about you.  And I will most likely photograph you.  (Although I may choose to give you a marshmallow face.)  Consider yourself lucky I opted not to shoot video.

(BTW, note to the guy who sat next to me in the middle seat on the return trip. Either go on a diet, or buy two seats the next time.  Spilling into my seat is no longer acceptable.)

So, in the future, please show some self restraint.  Or if you absolutely need to dine on nail and cuticle while on a plane, please do so behind the closed doors of the lavatory.

Thanks a bunch.

This actually happened on December 31st, but it’s taken me this long to stop laughing.

The obvious point is that a person that actually has access to a million dollars is not likely to be caught dead in Wal-Mart.  Unless, of course they are part of Sam Walton’s family and have shown up in an armored vehicle to pick up that day’s receipts.

This place scares me.

Secondly, everyone knows not to give a cashier an abnormally large bill for a small purchase.  (Dude…seriously?!  A million dollar bill for a $467 purchase?  That’s like giving someone a $1,000 bill for a 46 cent purchase.)  Way rude.

That kind of shit will get you bitch slapped by the cashier.  And “dirty-looked” by everyone else standing behind you in line.  Maybe even shot at in the parking lot.  Here’s hoping.

Have you seen the people who shop at Wal-Mart?  If they stampede your ass you will turn into ground meat in no time.  Those people don’t play.  (And spandex is their favorite fabric.  Just in case you didn’t know.)

And what did that asshat attempt to purchase with his million dollar bill?  A vacuum cleaner, a microwave and some other stuff.  (Please tell me I don’t actually have to point out that there is no such thing as a one million dollar bill.  Okay.  Good.  The largest U.S. bill currently in circulation carries a charming portrait of Mr. Franklin.)

Dude?!  Seriously?!  No guns??  No bulk toilet paper?  No house dresses for your woman?  What the hell kind of Wal-Mart shopper are you?  (Are you sure you didn’t mean to hit up the Best Buy?  Just think of the reward points you just walked away from.)

For years Wal-Mart was banned from opening a store within the Chicago city limits.  Yet another sign of intelligence from the Windy City.  (That, and the ability of our dead people to vote.)

Do we remember the story from a few weeks back about the fake doctor, the cement and tire sealant? (Memory refresher:  a rubber hose was used to insert cement and flat tire sealant into a “patient’s” ass to create a curvier profile.)

Well, apparently, a different fake doctor was recently charged with injecting silicone into a 22-year-old man’s penis.  I’m going to assume enlargement was the objective here.

Clearly we have an unlimited supply of morons in this country. People, let me point out the obvious to you. If you show up for a procedure and don’t see all of the following, start running:

a.  At least ten magazine subscriptions with the doctor’s name on the address label.

b.  A receptionist.  More likely than not, she’ll have an attitude.

c.  A waiting room.

d.  Several diplomas.  (Not from an internet university.)

e.  A bathroom key chained to a large item so that you don’t forget to return it.

f.  A sign with the word co-pay in it.

g. Filing cabinets.

h.  Other patients.

i.  The absence of police tape.

j. Sanitation that does not resemble a Calcutta alley.

k.  Syringes that are not prelabeled with the words heroin and speedball.

There’s one more thing.  It looks like we are going to have a bumper crop of candidates for this year’s Darwin Awards.  These people are redefining “stupid.”

Who among us hasn’t been dumped?!  It can be painful, sad and sometimes even humiliating.

But, at the end of the day, it’s your choice whether or not you board the crazy train during this process.

And this folks is what a first class ticket looks like.

The Huffington Post reports that Tareq Salahi (of allegedly crashing the White House state dinner fame) is now auctioning his estranged wife’s used underwear.

Can we just all scream out a collective  eeeewwwwweee!

CNN is reporting that he will be auctioning a whole slew of her personal possesions and that the auction will be streamed online.

Dude.  Where do I even start?!

First you and your attention-starved, soon to be ex-wife create a scene at the White House.  Then about a month ago she suddenly disappears from home and you think she’s been kidnapped.  (That quickly turns into she’s dumped you for Journey’s guitarist.)

Ouch!

Okay, so not everyone acts out Kate Hudson’s role in Almost Famous in their late teens.  Some people wait until they are Botox candidates.  A 45-year-old woman running away with a rock guitarist is in the same scary category as that woman who had plastic surgery so that she could look like a cat.

So, what does Tareq choose to do?

Auction his wife’s used underwear and other stuff, claiming it’s for charity.  Which, turns out to be a very sketchy claim at best.

Listen, if I had chosen to auction one of my ex-husband’s possessions, I would have gone for a major organ, like a kidney or maybe a lung.  (Unfortunately, the heart was never an option. He was born without one.)

In my book, there is only one thing creepier than trying to retaliate by selling an intimate possession.

Buying it.  That would change your crazy train status from first class to conductor.

At the risk of offending a few readers, I have to say that when it comes to tattoos, I’m not a fan.

I just can’t wrap my brain around doing something that permanent to my body.

I can be a teensy bit more open-minded about ink that’s small and in a discrete place, but when it comes to things like full sleeves, tribal face art and the like, my reaction is…eeewwww!

So when one of my friends posted this YouTube link on her Facebook page recently, the only thing I could think was that this person’s insanity meter was definitely in the red zone.

Sorry, but tattooing your Facebook friends’ photos on your arm is beyond freaky deaky.

I just went to my 40th high school reunion.  The thought of walking around for the rest of my life with my friends’ high school yearbook photos tattoo’d on my arm  is enough to make my want to amputate it.

People, what seems like a good idea today, isn’t probably going to sit well with you 40 years from now.  Would you be caught dead today in 60s tie-dyed or 70s disco attire?

I didn’t think so.  And that’s something you can simply remove.

So what makes you think that ’10s body art is going to work for you in the ’30s?

We live during a time when people would rather live together than go through the hassle of marriage and subsequent 50% chance of divorce.  However, they think nothing of making permanent marks on their skin that is going to look disgusting when the aging process takes hold.  Sagging skin + tats = high gross factor.

Last year’s gladiator sandal is this year’s Salvation Army contribution.  Getting rid of clothes and shoes is one thing.  But, I’m pretty sure that donating a limb would be frowned upon.

So, before you think of subjecting yourself to this ritual, take a look at the oldest person you can find.  Try to imagine what those tattoos are going to look like if you are fortunate enough to reach a ripe old age.

If that’s not enough to deter you, then you are far less vain than I am.

It never ceases to amaze me what lines of etiquette people don’t think twice about crossing.

Don’t know about you, but I was brought with respect for appropriate behavior.  Like not wearing pajamas to a business meeting or walking barefoot into a grocery store.  I guess I always considered that stuff common sense.  But it’s come to my attention that not all people follow the same rules.

I am also of the opinion that people who clip their finger nails on airplanes should get life imprisonment without the chance of parole.  (How could you ever think it was okay to let parts of you fly across a cabin?!  Were you raised during the Paleolithic Era?)

So, you can imagine my disgust when I ran into Suzy Dog Groomer earlier today.  Exhibit A.

Pile o dog hair next to fire hydrant.

At the corner of my block, I encountered a woman who apparently had just groomed a dog.  On the street corner. In the Gold Coast.  That’s just six different kinds of crazy.

Fido (and I assume) its owner presumably had just left because all that remained was a huge pile of dog hair.  Like the size of a small, thick shag area rug.

Oh, and there was also a basket of clipping tools (blocked by the fire hydrant.)

This was the same block where some irate resident had taped a warning sheet on all of the bicycles padlocked to light poles.

These aren’t bike racks!  I have informed the alderman.  You need to use the bike racks provided by your building.

I can only image the angry fingers slamming on the keyboard and the veins bulging out of some “lady who lunches” neck.  She’d have a stroke if she saw the dog groomer engaged in her craft.

This isn’t a kennel.  It’s a public walkway. You cannot shave dogs here.  I have reported you to the Hair Club for Men, PETA, the Anti-Cruelty Society and Ralston Purina.

Be warned.  If you attempt to cut, trim, clip, etc., something off of a living thing in my presence and you are not standing in a place of business licensed for that purpose, I will stare your ass down.

Idiots.

There are so many wonderful things about living in the city.  Not the least of which you are pretty much guaranteed of running into some twisted thing or another every time you leave the house.

Today’s lunchtime foray was falling short of expectation, until I was within a few blocks from my condo.  And that’s when I bumped into the guy with a pig hat.

Crossing in front of me from my left to my right was a middle-aged guy who was dressed normally, with two exceptions.  He had a full pig face on top of his head.  I’m talking ears, protruding snout, chubby cheeks and big pig eyes.

And yes.  It was pink.

As he turned slightly, I could see that he had a small, matching pig pouch hanging from his neck.

Maybe that’s where the bacon bits are stashed?

As he crossed over to the other side of the street, I reached for my iPhone.  I was faced with a Catch 22 dilemma.  Do I try to photograph Pig Man in close proximity or play it safe and let him get a more non-aggressive distance away.  Where is the pig paparazzi handbook when you need it?

I chose the latter.

Pig head on the move. Please excuse the fuzzyness.

On the other hand, I’ve gotta give it to this guy.  While I would freak out at the thought of wearing white after Labor Day, this man was rocking a swine on his head.

Clearly, he has a much larger freak flag than I do and not afraid to fly it.

On the other hand, it’s possible that his chicken outfit may have been his first choice, but it was at the dry cleaner along with his bear suit.

Dude.  Any baby back ribs in that closet?

I’m heavily into music.  Pretty much all types.  My iPod looks like it’s owned by a schizophrenic.  Mozart to Eminem.  In fact, as I type this, I’m watching this year’s Rock Hall of Fame Induction via DVR.  (BTW, worse editing of a television program…ever.)

But even I have my limits as to how far I’ll take my passion.  Apparently not so for this guy.

If you clicked on the link, you’ve gotten the message.  If you haven’t, the Cliff Notes are that he has started a business to press ashes (as in the dearly departed) into vinyl.  You know…so that you can play over/through your loved one’s DNA.

WTF???!!!

Where do I even begin?

Hi.  In the mood for a little music?  I’d love to play my dad.

Oh, is your dad a musician?

No. He was a plumber.  But I thought it would be a good idea to embed his ashes into a vinyl record.  Please ignore the hissing and popping on the second track.  That’s dad’s right big toe.

I mean, why don’t we start making jewelry from our beloved deceased so that we can always carry them with us.  Or how about some place mats so that we never miss a meal without their presence.  Really?!!

We already have the bury or cremate options. Do we really need ash accessories?  I don’t think so.

But just in case the executor of my estate goes rogue and decides to music-afy my remains, I’m making my preferences clear right now.  Because tramps like us, baby we were born to run (right out of the cemetery and onto track #1).

Yes, that's his real autograph.

Specifically, I’d like my feet embedded into the title track, I’d like my lips inserted into Thunder Road and my ass placed on Backstreets. I also wouldn’t be opposed if people sang She’s The One loudly during the vinyl pressing process.

If all of that is not possible, please just stick me into the ground and send the worms a dinner invitation.

As creepy as that sounds, I think it’s better than having a record needle skip over my nose.  Just sayin’.