Category — What is wrong with you?

I gotta ask.  What’s with people who are pigs in gym locker rooms?

Seriously, how difficult is it to lift your towel off the floor and place it in a large receptacle  that is typically 10 to 20 feet away?

It begs the question, what happens in your own home?  Does your dropped  terry cloth eventually turn into multicolored floor covering?  Or do your ladies in waiting pick up after you?

Then we’ve got people that treat the actual locker like a mud room/garbage can.  Like this:

I'm scared of what I might find next week.

You see, locker #28 was my favorite at the gym where I go for my personal training.  Its just inside the entrance and enables a quick getaway.  Then long about February, some one stuck their wet boots/street shoes in there and left a few mud spots.  Gross.

Every week, I would check to see if it had been cleaned.  It hadn’t.

I bitched to my personal trainer about Locker #28.  Or I should say “my” locker.  Apparently, he didn’t think it was critical enough to pass the complaint along to management.  Clearly he under estimated my attachment to Locker #28.

Then last week, when I checked, I found gum wrappers in addition to the still-there mud spots.  (Of course, I bitched to my trainer again.  I really don’t go to the gym for personal training.  I pretty much pay him so that I can bitch about anything and everything.  Ain’t that right, Kurt?)

Back to the locker pigs. WTF?!

What will I discover next week?  A miniature crack den?   A deranged cat lady storing kittens there?

Will the neighboring lockers also go bad?  Condemned signs can’t be far behind.

You gotta wonder if these people were raised by wolves and under stalactites.  That would explain the mud, but not necessarily the gum wrappers and towels.

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.)

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.

Earlier this week, I read a story about a man urinating in the aisle of an airplane in front of a 12 year old girl.  Today, I heard about French actor Gerard Depardieu urinating on a plane while it was preparing to take off.

These aren’t people with incontinence problems.  They are simply your garden variety drunk assholes.

I digress for a moment to scream, “What the hell is wrong with you people?!!”

Fair warning potential plane urinators. If I see one of you stand up and start to unzip, I’m telling you right now, I’m going to rip out my tray table and slap your dick with it.

I am not interested in looking at your penis while I’m trying to figure out if I want to buy the giant cookie or tube of Pringles.

Travel insurance.

Also, a note to the airlines.  I know you are totally against giving passengers anything for free anymore, but you may wish to modify that policy a tad.  Please consider handing out Depends to drunk or crazy looking men while they are still in the jetway.

Spending a little cash on male diapers may end up saving you a whole bunch in cleaning costs and lawsuits.

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.

I have a friend who has been a successful attorney for years.  While she is intelligent and gifted in many ways, she doesn’t posses a single molecule of technological competence. She’d be the first to admit it.

This has created many a hysterical moment between us over the years.  (Gotta hand it to her.  She has a great sense of humor about the whole thing.)

Her condo is a throwback to the ’80s.  Not even a laptop, let alone a DVR or WiFi.  When she walks into my gadget-rich home office she has an immediate fear of electrocution.  Honest.

Oh…and she’s never texted.  Yeah.  Can’t make this stuff up.

So you can imagine my combined shock and amusement about a month ago when she announced she was getting an iPhone.   Umm…what are you going to sync it with?  Your toothbrush?

There is a little man inside this phone. For reals.

The conversation went a little like this.

Me: Are you really sure you need an iPhone.  I’m being honest here when I tell you that I think it will make you cry.

Her: Well, I want a phone that will work in Europe.

Me: You don’t need an iPhone for that.  There are plenty of quad band phones you can choose from.  Or, in your case, I would recommend a can and some string.

Did she listen to me?  Nope.  She bought an iPhone a few days before her trip to the U.K.

Right before her departure, I sent her a text.  I then called her on her land line to walk her through returning it. I know. Great friend, right?!

Then I thought of sending her a photo via text, but I knew her brain would explode.  Instead,  I told her we would go through a more in-depth tutorial when she returned.

She came over a few weeks later.  Before we got started on iPhone 101, I asked her how big her phone was.  Of course a normal person would understand that I was asking about gigabytes.  Not her.  How did she answer the question?

She held the phone up in the air so I could see its physical size.   It was so innocent that I started laughing. Uncontrollably.  Which, of course, made her do the same thing.  We had tears running down our faces. Except she still didn’t know why…but she knew it was going to be a good one.

The next revelation to her was that the iPhone comes with an iPod component.  She was stunned.  More laughter.

Her. Really?!!  This phone has an iPod?!!

Me: Exactly what did you think the icon on the home page with the word “iPod” underneath it meant?

Her. I never even noticed it.  Are you telling me that this phone will let me play music.

Me. Yes.  There is a tiny little man who lives right inside the phone who’s sole purpose is to sing songs to you. (I figured that was easier for her to comprehend than trying to explain the download process.)

Next, we moved to the iPhone’s map feature.  I watched the wonderment in her eyes as the little red pins dropped into place when I typed the word Starbucks in the search field.  I had to remind her to breathe.

I then attempted to show her the app store.  Clearly, I had crossed the line of over stimulation.  We had to stop.

Next up?  She’s promised to let me take her shopping for a laptop.  Oh, that’s going to be a real knee slapper.

Did you get the memo?  Yeah, the kooks are are saying that tomorrow, May 21st is Judgment Day.  Their interpretation is that those who are destined for heaven are going to be taken into “rapture” tomorrow.  The rest, the undeserving meanies, are going to remain on earth for another five months and subjected to torture.

These days, having the internet go down is what I would define as torture.  However, I’m guessing they are thinking something more serious.  Like both the internet and cable going down.  (BTW, I used to be married to Satan, so I’m super experienced with the whole torture thing.)

The five-month period is called “end of days.”  Which sounds more like the beginning of an Artic winter, than five months of physical and psychological abuse. But, what do I know.  I’m not that hip to rapture vocab.  (I speak a few languages, but “crazy,” isn’t one of them.)

I’m curious though.  How do these peeps know?  Are they on an ultra-exclusive rapture notification list?  Did they discover a rapture decoder ring at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box?  Is there a private Twitter account that you have to follow? Or did they find a leftover stash of Owsley LSD from the 60s and hallucinated the whole thing?  (My money is on the Owsley tabs.)

Or maybe it’s an excuse to get lazy.  I mean…if you think that some big eternity decision is going to be made tomorrow, it’s like getting an open invitation to slack today.

Now that I think about it, one of my clients decided to play golf today.  Hmmm.  I wonder if he’s on the rapture notification list?  (If you’ve been reading about my trials and tribulations with the painting contractors, you know that those guys are totally in the know.)

As for me, I’ve got an eye exam scheduled for tomorrow morning.    Hey rapture peeps, I’d rather skip the whole pupil dilation thing if tomorrow turns out to be the real deal.  So, can you please notify me at breakfast.

Much appreciated.

After having a fun Sunday morning breakfast with a gal pal, I needed to run a couple of errands before returning home.  My mom was running short on bread and asked me to pick some up if I was going out.  Dutiful daughter that I am, I made a pit stop at one of the little grocery stores in my urban Chicago neighborhood.

Grabbing a loaf of French bread and a half-loaf of Wonder Bread, I made my way to the check out area.  I quickly sized up the two open registers and opted for the one with a young couple unloading their cart.

I stood there for a few minutes as they placed their grocery items onto the conveyor belt.  Not a huge order…but not a super small one, either.  I’d say there were probably about 15 or so items of varying shapes and sizes on the belt.

I place my two loaves behind their order and wait patiently (as patiently as I’m capable of…which is basically, not very)  for them to cash out.

And that’s when she said, “We don’t want a shopping bag.”

No biggie.  Sign of the times.  You see it more and more these days when environmentally-minded folks bring in their own cloth bags or recycle paper ones.  Except in this case, it became obvious that they didn’t mean they that.  They meant we don’t want a bag…any bag…at all.

I perk up.  Militants.  Right in front of my very eyes.  So, now I’ve suddenly gone from bored to gawker!  They do not realize that they have just become entertainment for me.

I watch while they gather (see…I promised you hunter/gatherers!) their various purchases.  A large bottle of juice, half a dozen eggs, a bunch of bananas and so on.  Nothing that could be stacked or easily nested together.

These two probably spend their summers at Camp Cirque du Soleil figuring out ways to grocery shop while doing acrobatics.  That would explain their thin muscular frame.

As they walked away precariously embracing the various grocery items, I looked at the cashier.   We had a moment.

“I have been doing this a long time,” she said.  I’m used to people asking for or doing weird things in the checkout line, but this one is now at the top of my list.”

Wow.  A cashier personal best.  Awesome! It takes a lot to make someone’s top five list who works retail in the city.  Congrats to you freaky hunter/gatherers.

However, much as I enjoyed the moment, I wasn’t in the mood for extended chit chat with the cashier.  No sireee.  I now needed to run out the door quickly to stalk the hunter/gatherers.  I wanted to see how far these two planned on walking with two armfuls of groceries.  Or if, for example, they exited the store and walked right into a double-parked gas guzzling vehicle.

Which, of course, would have made them hypocritical hunter/gatherers.

So here’s me grabbing the two loaves of bread (of course they were in a bag!) and running out the door.  I hit the street and quickly scan for my Sasquatches.

You gotta understand.  I live in a neighborhood where people pay other people to park their car, walk their dogs and pick up their dry cleaning.  People walking down the street cradling unbagged food?  Not so much.

If you squint, you can see them at the corner. Like photographing Sasquatch, you can't get too close.

I look to my right, and then to my left.  There they were.  Already at the corner.  Apparently hunter/gatherers walk fast.

Like a lunatic, I start running down the street with my two loaves of bread.  I’m secretly thinking how awesome it would be if they dropped the eggs.  (I also am aware that the thought just cost me karma points.)

They turn the corner and proceed to walk down another half block where they go into the lobby of a high rise.  I watch them struggle with door.  But they manage to make it through without dropping a thing.

Damn!  Talented hunter/gatherers!

But, I’d love to up the anti.  Hey hunter/gatherers!  I triple dare you to pull this stunt at Costco!