Fun List Fridays

We Present: Random Lists of Distinctly Selected Items. If you would like to contribute a list, please email us and include your list, list title, and post name in the body of the email. We do not discriminate or edit.

Friday, July 15, 2005


--TO the barefooted, gray haired, natty ponytailed hippie with the fugly fraggle girlfriend and the neon yellow Christian Hosoi skateboard with railguards: Listen, the No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service sign was created with you in mind. Plus, I know your shitcan wasted on Bahama Mamas, or whatever you Van Hagars drink, but quite asking me to buy you a taco. I said no the first three times you burner.

--TO the Jersey guy with the Devils cutoff and the apedrape on line in front of me at Taco Bell Express: Look, I know you want a Chalupa. We all want a Chalupa, but its T-Bell EXPRESS, they just don't serve them. The best you can get is a cold Gordita with day old sour cream. Deal. Ps--Whats so EXPRESS about the fact that I waited in line for 30 minutes.

--TO the slacker employees who didn't notice me fill my waterbottle with Sprite when I kindly asked if I could get some water: Appreciate the insolence fellas, but seriously, on a larger scale of irresponsibility--thats how things like 9/11 happen.

--To the random hero on line that tried to rat me out: Ease buddy. You wouldn't be so eager to help out 'the man' if you knew 'the man' was really some 16-year-old kid who just jizzed in your chicken soft taco. Guess what? I knew, and its dripping down your chin. And its not hair gel.

--To the Filipino kid who took the last 7 Fire Sauces from the tray, leaving me with the choice of Mild or, for some mysterious reason, ketchup: Fuck you little man!

--To the 200 Timmys in the Nascar uniform (jeans, t-shirt, baseball hat with fake Oakleys on brim): Look, I know we all want to look like a rightfielder, but don't you ever look around and notice every other Arizon frat boy/construction site supervisor is dressed the exact same way. Howw bout going big? Eyeblack? Cleats? C'mon, its Vegas. And your shirt says No Fear in big red letters.

--To the guy in the bathroom stall next to me calling his friend and saying that he's in Vegas at some hot club: I'm not one to necessarily call bullshit, but sometimes you just gotta throw a red flag out. In this case my red flag is some soggy diarrea paper and I'm airbombing your lying ass right now.

--To the creepy Gino who keeps leaning over the armrest to read what I'm writing: Just because you tell me (a complete stranger) that you'd fuck every girl who walks by, doesn't mean I believe it. And since I'm sure they've all noticed either (A) the issue of Swank (out of the plastic) conveniently sticking out of your travelbag (B)the urine stain on your jean shorts or (C) your construction boots, I'm sure they don't believe it either. By the way--I don't know if you're trying to impress me by dropping the N Bomb into casual conversation, but you better cut that shit out. Even though its kind of dark in this terminal, you can't possibly mistake this sweet vintage Lawns By Ron little league jersey for a KKK hood. Seriously dude, you're about three feathers shy of being the biggest cheif on the reservation.

--To the tripping hippie in the pajamas and camoflauge baggy overalls: Follow the rainbow into the mens room. Above the sink is a cuddly leprachaun with a gold pot full of magic mushrooms. Just kidding. ITs actually a mirror, but look deeply. It contains the answer. Ps--how'd you get those Devil Stix through security?

--To the three old ladies delayed on the way to Oregon: You gals are awesome! You sell porcelein at antique shows and floss more fake gold jewelry than a college Pimps N Hos bash. Plus I smelled reefer on you. You just kicked ass at an international expo in Philly and now you're gonna rock Portland! If your bones weren't so brittle I'd high five you all day.

--To me: Sure I feel guilty popping 3 vicodin in front of the little girl sitting next to me as we taxi out, but, judging by how white-zinfandel drunk her mom is I'm sure its only a matter of time before she's stealing some sort of meds from her boyfriend. Plus shes got an iPod, a portable DVD player and a window seat. I'm crammed in the middle with a walkmen and a Blue Oyster Cult mix that rewinds itself halfway through the psychedelic solo on Don't Fear The Reaper.


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