and at the end, an asshole bit

…first off, am i an asshole?

i don’t mean that in the generic, general sense…in that regard i fucking KNOW i’m an asshole. i mean that in the sense that…well…take this one question survey:

1. which of the following saturday night events should take two hours?

(mark as many as apply in your world)

a. a movie in the theater
b. dinner at a restaurant where there’s always a wait
c. target

okay, so many would argue that “c” shouldn’t be a saturday night out – shit, my life isn’t THAT dull and i’m not THAT fucking old, right? so i would believe…

…but i would apparently be wrong.

at the very least, you would think it would be a quick in and out – not a way to pass the evening…and certainly not two or three hours of it, right? especially not when we end up BACK there on sunday to return 88% of what was aquired after said three hour excursion because “it just didn’t work”, right?

(if you’re wondering how i deal with this sober you should know the short answer is, “i don’t” – last night i simply deposited her there, went to harold’s, got in a mental place where, let’s just say, i was a lot more easily amused, and that last forty-five minutes in target wasn’t half bad…lots of pretty girls, pretty colors, and pretty shapes…at least in that frame of mind…but never mind that now)

today took less than an hour (barely) but came with the promise (and fulfillment) of booze slightly thereafter…now, does me not enjoying this make me an asshole? i mean, i like to shop more than the average guy, but even i have a limit.

just checking.

and to make this fun, here’s a rerun of the “asshole” bit i ripped off from a spam my sister sent me…

(repeat – i DIDN’T write this last half, i just wished i did…)

For all of you who occasionally have a really bad day, and you just need to take it out on someone, don’t take it out on someone you know, take it out on someone you don’t know.

I was sitting at my desk, when I remembered a phone call I had forgotten to make. I found the number, and dialed it. A man answered saying, “Hello?” I politely said, “This is Fred Hanifin, could I please speak with Robin Carter?” Suddenly, the phone was slammed down on me. I couldn’t believe that anyone could be so rude.

I tracked down Robin’s correct number, and called her. (I had transposed the last two digits of her phone number). After hanging up with her, I decided to call the ‘wrong’ number again. When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled, “You’re an asshole!” and hung up.

I wrote his number down, with the word ‘asshole’ next to it, and put it in my desk drawer. Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I’d call him. He’d answer and I’d yell, “You’re an asshole!”

It always cheered me up.

When Caller ID came to our area, I thought my therapeutic ‘asshole’ calling would have to stop. So, I called his number and said, “Hi, this is John Smith from the Telephone Company. I’m just calling to see if you’re familiar with the caller ID program?” he yelled, “NO!” and slammed the phone down.

I quickly called him back and said, “That’s because you’re an asshole!”

So, one day I was at the store, getting ready to pull into a parking spot. Some guy in a black BMW cut me off, and pulled into the spot I had patiently waited for. I hit the horn and yelled that I had been waiting for the spot.The idiot ignored me. I noticed a “For Sale” sign in his car window, so I wrote down his number.

A couple of days later, right after calling the first asshole (I had his number on speed dial), I thought I had better call the BMW asshole, too. I dialed and someone said, “Hello? I said, “Is this the man with the black BMW for sale?”
“Yes it is.”
“Can you tell me where I can see it?”
“Yes, I live at 1802 West 34th Street. It’s a yellow house and the car’s parked right out front.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“My name is Don Hansen,” he said.
“When’s a good time to catch you, Don?”
“I’m home every evening after five.”
“Listen, Don, can I tell you something?”
“Yes?”
“Don, you’re an asshole!”

Then I hung up, and added his number to my speed dial, too. Now, when I had a problem, I had two assholes to call. But after several months of calling them, it wasn’t as enjoyable as it used to be.

So, I came up with an idea: I called Asshole #1.
“Hello”
“You’re an asshole!” (but I didn’t hang up.)
“Are you still there?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Stop calling me,” he screamed
“Make me,” I said.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“My name is Don Hansen.”
“Yeah? Where do you live?”
“Asshole, I live at 1802 West 34th Street, a yellow house with my black Beemer our front.”
He said, “I’m coming over right now, Don…and you had better start saying your prayers.”
I said, “Yeah, like I’m really scared, asshole.”

Then I called asshole # 2:
“Hello?” he said.
“Hello Asshole,” I said.
He yelled, “If I ever find out who you are…”
“You’ll what?” I said.
“I’ll kick your ass,” he exclaimed.
I answered, “Well, asshole, here’s your chance…I’m coming over right now.”

Then, I hung up, and immediately called the police saying that I lived at 1802 West 34th Street, and I was on my way over there to kill my gay lover. Then, I called Channel 13 news about the gang war going down on West 34th Street.