No more Mr. Nice Guy



I had several people mention to me how much they enjoyed last week’s column. “It was so sweet,” they would tell me. “You must have turned over a new leaf.”

Um, not quite. It’s just that I’ve not mentioned the things that drive me crazy lately. But don’t worry, I’ve still got a list.

For instance, I’m sick of login passwords on the computer. I’ve got two or three different passwords at work, an Apple iTunes password, a password for poker, a password for the satellite radio, etc. Every single time I turn on my dadgum computer, it wants me to come up with a password. I try using the same word for as many of them as I can, but sometimes they want you to put numbers and letters with it, or capitalize some of it, or make some of it in four different languages…

You can click the little box that says “Remember my password”, but that only lasts a couple of weeks. Then sure enough I’ll try to check my mail or something and it will ask me “Do you remember your password?”

Well Hell no I don’t remember my password! That’s why I clicked the dang box, because I want YOU to remember my password.

Here’s another one that drives me crazy, and I’ll bet I’m not the only guy that has this problem. I was trying to pack some leftovers for my lunch the other day and went looking for a Tupperware bowl. I opened the drawer where I saw them last, and lo and behold there were about a gazillion different bowls and lids in there. Round Tupperware bowls, square Tupperware bowls, bowls in the shapes of animals, butter bowls, cool whip bowls, you name it. But I couldn’t find a lid to fit one of those bowls if my life depended on it.

Don’t get me wrong, we had enough lids. Heck, we must have had three lids for every bowl. But none of the lids I found would fit any of the bowls that I pulled out.

My wife heard me cussing and digging around in there, and came in to the kitchen rolling her eyes and making that “disgusted with me” sound that she makes (You know, like I’m the stupid one). She walked right to the opposite side of the kitchen, opened up a totally different cabinet, and pulled out two Tupperware bowls with the lids already on them.

Here’s another one for you. If you or someone you know is in the food serving business, can you please explain to them to cut back on the tattoos and stuff? I don’t want someone painted up like the Lizard Guy bringing my food to my table. I’m not crazy about grabbing my burger and fries from a couple of hands that have “F**K” and “You” on the knuckles.

And for God’s sake girls, can we cut down on the hickeys, please? First of all, if you are old enough to be a waitress then you are old enough not to have hickeys anymore. This isn’t junior high. Secondly, it upsets my stomach when you ask for my order and I look up to see a big disgusting bruise on the side of your neck. Did you get it two days ago? Yesterday? Seven minutes ago in the break room? It just screams “nasty”. That isn’t the word you want running through your mind while you are trying to eat.

Finally, the last thing on the list that drives me crazy is when I see a police officer sitting on the side of the road or just over a little hill hiding. You don’t know how many times I’ve prayed that a big sign or tree would suddenly get struck by lightning and fall right on top of a squad car. Not to hurt them, just to mess up their car.

Listen, if you pass me and you catch me speeding, I deserve it. Go on and give me a ticket. But there’s something about seeing a cop hiding like a nasty little rat that makes my blood boil. It just seems like the easy way out. I always want to stop and yell “Earn your paycheck!” or something. Or stop a half mile away and hold up a big sign warming everybody what’s ahead.

And that, folks, is one column that I’m sure I’ll pay for one day.



Love the column? Hate the column? Have an idea for a new column? Go to news@robconews.com or shannonscasta.blogspot.com and leave a comment.