We don't have cable at our apartment, so my exposure to Fox News is limited. Thank god for small favors, right? Still, even I know that the network is overflowing with crazy. For anybody well-acquainted with reality, watching Fox News is like tuning in to the latest updates from Bizarro World. Up is down, left is right. (Except the left is never right, because those flag-burning socialist baby killers are coming after your children to take away their religion while turning them into homosexual jihadists.)
I am not the first or even the 26,000th person to say that facts are only somewhat relevant to Fox's reporting. Interpretation, opinion, spin, and emotion have stronger pull. Fox distorts the truth to fit its agenda, and in a triumph of evil-genius message-manipulating puppetry, its talking heads regularly complain about how the liberal media is biased, and only Fox has the courage to tell the "truth."
I have been thinking about how we can have our own Fox News channel inside our heads. To some extent, most of us create versions of reality to fit our personal agenda. We might downplay inconvenient facts and concoct new interpretations of events. We look better than we are when we broadcast these lies — and they are lies, even if they're small ones. The more we repeat them, the easier it is to believe the stories we tell ourselves. We have met Karl Rove and he is us.
And of course these stories get high ratings, because they tell us what we want to hear about ourselves.
I have not been completely immune from being overly imaginative in this way, but I am doing my best to be straightforward and honest — with both myself and other people. I aim to be BBC World News, not Fox News. This is why lately, I am alternately angered and amused by people who habitually lie to themselves and to me. It angers me because I initially question myself: Did I get the story wrong? But then I look at the immutable facts and think, "No, I'm just dealing with the Glenn Beck of my personal life."
It amuses me because after figuring that out, I somewhat enjoy watching the Fox News mentality in action. At first, I think these people must be plotting their dishonest moves, but then I realize that's giving them too much credit. They actually believe their distorted worldview over the facts staring them in the face. So it becomes entertaining to see them drift off into their Bizarro World, in which their stories have little to no basis in reality. I watch for a while, just to observe the craziness in action. And then I go back to living in the real world. We all are affected by our own perspectives, but when they substitute for reality, it is time for me to change the channel.
I am not the first or even the 26,000th person to say that facts are only somewhat relevant to Fox's reporting. Interpretation, opinion, spin, and emotion have stronger pull. Fox distorts the truth to fit its agenda, and in a triumph of evil-genius message-manipulating puppetry, its talking heads regularly complain about how the liberal media is biased, and only Fox has the courage to tell the "truth."
I have been thinking about how we can have our own Fox News channel inside our heads. To some extent, most of us create versions of reality to fit our personal agenda. We might downplay inconvenient facts and concoct new interpretations of events. We look better than we are when we broadcast these lies — and they are lies, even if they're small ones. The more we repeat them, the easier it is to believe the stories we tell ourselves. We have met Karl Rove and he is us.
And of course these stories get high ratings, because they tell us what we want to hear about ourselves.
I have not been completely immune from being overly imaginative in this way, but I am doing my best to be straightforward and honest — with both myself and other people. I aim to be BBC World News, not Fox News. This is why lately, I am alternately angered and amused by people who habitually lie to themselves and to me. It angers me because I initially question myself: Did I get the story wrong? But then I look at the immutable facts and think, "No, I'm just dealing with the Glenn Beck of my personal life."
It amuses me because after figuring that out, I somewhat enjoy watching the Fox News mentality in action. At first, I think these people must be plotting their dishonest moves, but then I realize that's giving them too much credit. They actually believe their distorted worldview over the facts staring them in the face. So it becomes entertaining to see them drift off into their Bizarro World, in which their stories have little to no basis in reality. I watch for a while, just to observe the craziness in action. And then I go back to living in the real world. We all are affected by our own perspectives, but when they substitute for reality, it is time for me to change the channel.
Labels: crabbiness
I am not the only one in my family to feel Scroogey about this issue. Every time my father heard "The Little Drummer Boy," I thought he was going to pa rum pum pum pummel something. My mother, however, loves certain Christmas songs. She has a history of falling in love with an album, then playing it — and only it — for that holiday season. In my childhood, it was John Denver and the Muppets. Then it was the Barbra Streisand album. By far, the worst was These Are Special Times, featuring the vocal stylings of Celine Dion. On repeat. It is a wonder that nobody committed seppuku that year.
And so, my crabby ass brings you my top five worst Christmas songs. I'm not including obvious ones such as "Feliz Navidad" and "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer." Also out: modern pop-culture offenses along the lines of this Christmas Cash trash and the Lohan/Destiny's Child/My Chemical Romance pap. Too easy (and too much of it). Instead, these are the songs that stir a tiny sliver of repressed rage inside my soul. The ones that really drive me insane.
5. This version of Deck The Halls puts me into very mild panic if I can't get away from it. Literally, I feel my lungs tighten. It's that bad for me.
4. TIE! It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year / Happy Holiday. With the whoop-de-do and hickory dock? That makes no sense. Also, mistletoeing is not a word. It's back to remedial English for you, Andy Williams.
3. This Christmas, or as I like (hate) to sing it, "Theeeeeese Chreeesmusss." Something about the melody reminds me of farts, which would be fine if it didn't also make want to vomit. Only one unpleasant bodily function per song is allowed. Also, the video for Chris Brown's version takes on a menacing subtext considering his proclivity for beating women. In summary: We find Mr. Brown spying on some innocent family, stalking the daughter, and dancing in the street like a crazy person while they call the cops. Then he breaks into an orphanage, skulks around while on a hallucinogenic PCP bender, and creepily shushes the children until they hide under their covers. Haven't those kids suffered enough? Haven't we all? As my roommate put it, "Who does he think he is in that white suit, the fuckin' R. Kelly of Christmas?"
2. You'd think that they'd have learned from the run-run-reindeering that their father did back in the day, but no. Wendy and Carnie Wilson decided to unfurl the treacly Hey Santa upon us. The song's protagonist is waiting for her deadbeat beau to show up. She nags Santa about delivering this clearly uninterested man to her, and oh boy, it's a Christmas miracle! She's "underneath the mistletoe with my baby tonight." Immediately, the sisters begin chanting "slei-eigh ri-ide," which — due to my puerile sense of humor — makes me think that the proto-emo dork in the video has drawn them into a holiday-themed sex cult. And he's the sleigh.
1. Could this spot belong to anything other than Wonderful Christmastime? It's as though Paul McCartney looked at the success of "Happy Xmas (War Is Over)" — which, as a Vietnam protest song, really isn't about Christmas anyway — and thought, "Lennon will not outshine me! I need to get in on that!" It was not one of Macca's better endeavors. Though nearly universally reviled, it somehow manages to stay on holiday playlists year after year. Truly, it is the cockroach of Christmas songs.
Tomorrow: five holiday songs that I love, just to prove that I'm not a total grinch. (Until then, you can enjoy a free Michigan-y Christmas comp thanks in part to Mr. Kempa.)
Labels: christmas, crabbiness, music
Dear downstairs neighbors:
I know that you enjoy talking loudly about things such as your friend who "went to the swap meet wearing those tiny, shiny capri pants." I also know that you think Catholics don't just become Buddhists overnight. I know that you enjoy starting home improvement projects by hammering into your wall at five in the morning. I know all of these things because you guys are kind of loud.
It's OK, though. I am willing to ignore all of these things because your quirks are generally entertaining. I really do get a kick out of them, and I appreciate your good taste in cats. (That "beautiful ginger cat" is named Minou, by the way.) In general, you are the good kind of loud neighbors.
Except tonight we have a problem: You have the stereo cranked up so loud that I can hear every oom-pah of the polka compilation you're enjoying. Which would be funny, except I'm trying to have a big cry up here! It feels incongruous to sniffle and create a Kleenex mountain while some tuba is ending a song with a flatulent C-sharp. And because I try to ration my bouts of full-blown sobbing to only a few times per week, this emotional-purge time is valuable. It feels better after I let it all out. "The Beer Barrel Polka" will not do.
I would be happy to compile a mix of songs that would be suitable for your musical needs and my catharsis. (We both like New Order, so we can find a track or two that works for everyone.) Please let me know if you would be interested in my services.
Sincerely,
Your neighbor, who is mostly joking, but really does wish you'd turn the volume down
(PS)
Thank you for being nice about turning the music down when I hobbled to your apartment and knocked on your door at 2am.
I know that you enjoy talking loudly about things such as your friend who "went to the swap meet wearing those tiny, shiny capri pants." I also know that you think Catholics don't just become Buddhists overnight. I know that you enjoy starting home improvement projects by hammering into your wall at five in the morning. I know all of these things because you guys are kind of loud.
It's OK, though. I am willing to ignore all of these things because your quirks are generally entertaining. I really do get a kick out of them, and I appreciate your good taste in cats. (That "beautiful ginger cat" is named Minou, by the way.) In general, you are the good kind of loud neighbors.
Except tonight we have a problem: You have the stereo cranked up so loud that I can hear every oom-pah of the polka compilation you're enjoying. Which would be funny, except I'm trying to have a big cry up here! It feels incongruous to sniffle and create a Kleenex mountain while some tuba is ending a song with a flatulent C-sharp. And because I try to ration my bouts of full-blown sobbing to only a few times per week, this emotional-purge time is valuable. It feels better after I let it all out. "The Beer Barrel Polka" will not do.
I would be happy to compile a mix of songs that would be suitable for your musical needs and my catharsis. (We both like New Order, so we can find a track or two that works for everyone.) Please let me know if you would be interested in my services.
Sincerely,
Your neighbor, who is mostly joking, but really does wish you'd turn the volume down
(PS)
Thank you for being nice about turning the music down when I hobbled to your apartment and knocked on your door at 2am.
Labels: crabbiness, emo spice
Technically, it was. It was also the day that a new one went on. Never-ending and nonstop fun.
Labels: crabbiness, i can't walk
Well, this is just great. Last night during Self-Pitying Insomniafest 2009, I was organizing files when I noticed that two pictures on my Flickr stream were getting a lot of visitors. Both of them were of me in my cast. I looked at the referrers, and one was from a forum where people who are in casts can swap tips and experiences. "Oh, that's nice," I thought. "I'm sure they are just getting a kick out of the photo of me grinning maniacally while holding knives like a slasher." (You think I'm joking, but I'm not. It is a very clever and not at all ridiculous concept shot. I suffer for my art!)
I finally found sleep. I dreamed that Minou's photo was on the Flickr blog, giving ol' Mr. Tubbs the confidence boost that Milo had enjoyed during his moment of Flickr celebrity. In the dream, I thought, "Check the referrers!"
So this morning, after doing the normal wake-up things (stare out window, scan floor for hairballs), I saw that the views on the broken-me photos had jumped another 200 or so each overnight. That was odd; do that many people want to discuss their broken limbs? So I looked at the referrers again, and there was another site. I followed the link, and it's a forum for people whose fetishes are casts and crutches. Of course. Somewhere, there is a greasy German guy pleasuring himself to a photo of me on my crutches. Wunderbar! I'd let my leg hair grow in like a thick rug just to deglamorize the cast, but somewhere there is another forum for leg-hair fetishists anyway.
(The photos are now private, but who am I kidding? They've already been saved to hard drives. Ugh.)
I finally found sleep. I dreamed that Minou's photo was on the Flickr blog, giving ol' Mr. Tubbs the confidence boost that Milo had enjoyed during his moment of Flickr celebrity. In the dream, I thought, "Check the referrers!"
So this morning, after doing the normal wake-up things (stare out window, scan floor for hairballs), I saw that the views on the broken-me photos had jumped another 200 or so each overnight. That was odd; do that many people want to discuss their broken limbs? So I looked at the referrers again, and there was another site. I followed the link, and it's a forum for people whose fetishes are casts and crutches. Of course. Somewhere, there is a greasy German guy pleasuring himself to a photo of me on my crutches. Wunderbar! I'd let my leg hair grow in like a thick rug just to deglamorize the cast, but somewhere there is another forum for leg-hair fetishists anyway.
(The photos are now private, but who am I kidding? They've already been saved to hard drives. Ugh.)
Labels: crabbiness, humiliating photographs, i can't walk
You know why some old people are cranky as a bear with a sore paw? Because getting around with limited mobility is a pain in the ass! You'd be grumpy, too, if it took 10 minutes to hobble to the bathroom and take a leak. I'm not even that busted up, yet the smallest tasks become enormous chores when you're on crutches. (If I manage to shave my legs even once over the next six weeks, it will be a miracle.)
It's not all bad, though. Generally speaking, people are nice to you if you are hobbling around on these blasted things. I find that it helps to put on your most pathetic face, especially when approaching entryways. People will hold the doors open for you, and taxi drivers will get out of the car to help you sit in the backseat. It's like everyone in the world is trying to date you, except you don't have to worry that they're going to cop a feel. And my friends have been very kind; Sabrina has even offered to create a crutch cozy so that I can look stylish while flailing about.
Today I went to the podiatrist to get the results of my MRI. Nothing beyond the break, fortunately, and on went the cast. Because I cannot be easygoing about anything, I worried that I was holding my foot incorrectly, which would eventually lead to the cast being removed to reveal a deformed foot. Time will tell. The cast is heavy, and it cannot get wet, which is why today, I came home with this:
That's right, I bought a giant condom for my leg. As I told Meg, I think it really lends a sense of dignity to things.
It's not all bad, though. Generally speaking, people are nice to you if you are hobbling around on these blasted things. I find that it helps to put on your most pathetic face, especially when approaching entryways. People will hold the doors open for you, and taxi drivers will get out of the car to help you sit in the backseat. It's like everyone in the world is trying to date you, except you don't have to worry that they're going to cop a feel. And my friends have been very kind; Sabrina has even offered to create a crutch cozy so that I can look stylish while flailing about.
Today I went to the podiatrist to get the results of my MRI. Nothing beyond the break, fortunately, and on went the cast. Because I cannot be easygoing about anything, I worried that I was holding my foot incorrectly, which would eventually lead to the cast being removed to reveal a deformed foot. Time will tell. The cast is heavy, and it cannot get wet, which is why today, I came home with this:
That's right, I bought a giant condom for my leg. As I told Meg, I think it really lends a sense of dignity to things.
Labels: crabbiness, i can't walk, sabs
Work finished early, and I was a gloomy little cloud, so I stepped out into the sunny day for a walk. The air smelled like hot dogs, the expensive made-to-be-grilled kind rather than the wiggly Ball Parks that my grandmother used to boil. It wasn't as bad as that sounds, but I would have enjoyed things more if they hadn't been so meaty.
I had barely eaten in the preceding 24 hours, so I decided to search for some food. The city seemed happy, with lots of people smiling and enjoying the warm day. I walked past Tartine, past the restaurant where Scott and I had his birthday dinner, and into Bi-Rite. The market was moderately stuffed with park-goers buying picnic supplies. I picked up a jar of Paul Newman pasta sauce, two pints of ice cream (salted caramel, balsamic strawberry), and a container of frozen cookie dough. My favorite Bi-Rite checkout boy beckoned me to his register. I like to think that I am his favorite customer, as a supermarket fantasy sort of thing.
"How are you today?" he asked.
This is the kind of formality that people trot out, usually expecting a simple "good" or "fine." If those responses had been accurate, I would have said so. Instead, I twisted the right side of my face and said, "Not great."
"I'm sorry," he said, pausing as he held the cookie dough. "These aren't going to make it to the oven, are they?"
Of course not. I laughed a tiny bit, he wished me a better day, and I walked home. Sometimes leaving the house is a success; today was one of those days.
I had barely eaten in the preceding 24 hours, so I decided to search for some food. The city seemed happy, with lots of people smiling and enjoying the warm day. I walked past Tartine, past the restaurant where Scott and I had his birthday dinner, and into Bi-Rite. The market was moderately stuffed with park-goers buying picnic supplies. I picked up a jar of Paul Newman pasta sauce, two pints of ice cream (salted caramel, balsamic strawberry), and a container of frozen cookie dough. My favorite Bi-Rite checkout boy beckoned me to his register. I like to think that I am his favorite customer, as a supermarket fantasy sort of thing.
"How are you today?" he asked.
This is the kind of formality that people trot out, usually expecting a simple "good" or "fine." If those responses had been accurate, I would have said so. Instead, I twisted the right side of my face and said, "Not great."
"I'm sorry," he said, pausing as he held the cookie dough. "These aren't going to make it to the oven, are they?"
Of course not. I laughed a tiny bit, he wished me a better day, and I walked home. Sometimes leaving the house is a success; today was one of those days.
Labels: crabbiness
It had been a long, long time since I'd checked my old e-mail address. I miss that address, actually, but I couldn't handle the copious amounts of junk mail that hit it due to sneaky spam crawlers, so I switched. But for some reason, I thought, "Huh, I haven't logged into Metafilter for years. Maybe I should do that." (I know, this is all scintillating, but I've already worked something like 34 hours this week, and my mind is fuzzy.) But then I couldn't remember my password, and I had to sssssssh over in a shhhhhhhell to have my password hint delivered.
Ah, the forgotten yet familiar Pine! Its black-and-white simplicity brought a wave of nostalgia over me. I appreciate how connected everyone is now, how easy it is to do anything online, but there's a large part of me that misses the way things were before we had stupid Blackberrys and annoying iPhones to keep us linked up all of the time. Those gadgets are to Pine as Britney Spears is to Catherine Deneuve: faster, shinier, omnipresent, but trying a little too hard to do what its predecessor did so neatly and effortlessly.
Labels: crabbiness, regression to adolescence
I have a few issues with Jezebel, the largest of which is former editor Moe's dismissive haw-hawing over rape. Usually I can deal with its commenters' clique faction because I am prematurely grizzled and therefore over high-school stuff like that. But it's personally upsetting to see the thinly veiled mockery going on in this post on asexuality. The commenters, ostensibly pro-sex feminists, dig into my friend David by assuming that his asexuality is a cover for bigger issues. (He's a foxy pro-sex, feminist-minded, bisexual asexual, for the record. Yes, we live in San Francisco.) I don't understand why some people panic and point fingers because other people don't want to have sex. Why is everyone so obsessed with what's going on, or what's not going on, in other people's beds?
Labels: crabbiness
I live near a university, and when I signed the lease on my apartment, I figured it would be no big thing. After all, the area seemed quiet during the day and at night, plus it's a Jesuit school. How wild and crazy could it be?
I was a damned fool!
Now that school is back in session, my error is apparent. Every night, nocturnal Bacchanalian college students play a game called Let's Congregate Outside Old Lady Tomlin's Bedroom And Recap Our Antics Loudly. Out of courtesy, they leave me in peace during the dinner hour. Then, around 9:00, they trickle forth from their dormitories for a warm-up routine called Loudly Making Plans on Our Cell Phones. Things die down for a few hours as they go to some party or library or other place, with a few stragglers joining the fun between 11 and midnight. Then it's the grand competition: Who can be the swellest swiller to rouse the geriatric grizzle from her slumber? Every night.
I have no way to combat this barrage of post-adolescent chatter, and on my less onerous days I might observe how students have and haven't changed since I was their age. But mostly, they wake me up, and this does nothing but feed my crabbiness. I would like to poke my head out of the window, Egoiste-style, and gently remind them to keep it down, there are old people around here (i.e., me). But since I sleep in the nude (less titillating than you'd think, honestly) I'd have to get dressed first, lest the students commence a new game: Peep Old Lady Tomlin's Headlights.
I was a damned fool!
Now that school is back in session, my error is apparent. Every night, nocturnal Bacchanalian college students play a game called Let's Congregate Outside Old Lady Tomlin's Bedroom And Recap Our Antics Loudly. Out of courtesy, they leave me in peace during the dinner hour. Then, around 9:00, they trickle forth from their dormitories for a warm-up routine called Loudly Making Plans on Our Cell Phones. Things die down for a few hours as they go to some party or library or other place, with a few stragglers joining the fun between 11 and midnight. Then it's the grand competition: Who can be the swellest swiller to rouse the geriatric grizzle from her slumber? Every night.
I have no way to combat this barrage of post-adolescent chatter, and on my less onerous days I might observe how students have and haven't changed since I was their age. But mostly, they wake me up, and this does nothing but feed my crabbiness. I would like to poke my head out of the window, Egoiste-style, and gently remind them to keep it down, there are old people around here (i.e., me). But since I sleep in the nude (less titillating than you'd think, honestly) I'd have to get dressed first, lest the students commence a new game: Peep Old Lady Tomlin's Headlights.
Labels: crabbiness, sleep
This is going to sound ridiculous and Stepford wife-y, but I love groceries. There's something about finding the perfect mango or a delicious cheese that makes me simply and purely happy. So I was quite excited to go home last night to use the produce I'd bought at Whole Foods. I devoured garlicky guacamole, chased it with pomegranate juice, and then made an avocado-provolone-tomato-sprout-tofurky-pesto sandwich. I was pretty sure that the sprouts were still good, and the pesto smelled all right, and I figured that nobody ever died from eating a whole avocado in one sitting before. And that's where the trouble began.
Halfway into the sandwich, my belly began to feel full. "That doesn't make sense, because I had a tiny lunch," I thought. "I will finish this SOB off." So I did, and then went on to clean the kitchen. Horrifyingly, I started belching. I very rarely experience this problem, honestly. Braap, braap, braap, I croaked while a tornado whipped through my stomach. The cat stared at me worriedly, then pooped in solidarity.
I put clean sheets on the bed and collapsed on top of it. As long as I didn't move, my digestive system seemed happy. So, as I am wont to do upon turning horizontal, I took a little nap. The ringing phone roused me from an avocado-green dream. I groggily answered it, only to hear laughter and conversation: a party of some sort. The voices sounded familiar but muffled, and then I heard Phil's voice. I repeated my hellos before realizing that he'd just ass-dialed me. I don't know whether to laugh about this or cringe.
Halfway into the sandwich, my belly began to feel full. "That doesn't make sense, because I had a tiny lunch," I thought. "I will finish this SOB off." So I did, and then went on to clean the kitchen. Horrifyingly, I started belching. I very rarely experience this problem, honestly. Braap, braap, braap, I croaked while a tornado whipped through my stomach. The cat stared at me worriedly, then pooped in solidarity.
I put clean sheets on the bed and collapsed on top of it. As long as I didn't move, my digestive system seemed happy. So, as I am wont to do upon turning horizontal, I took a little nap. The ringing phone roused me from an avocado-green dream. I groggily answered it, only to hear laughter and conversation: a party of some sort. The voices sounded familiar but muffled, and then I heard Phil's voice. I repeated my hellos before realizing that he'd just ass-dialed me. I don't know whether to laugh about this or cringe.
Labels: crabbiness
It really bothers me when boys in bands want to do the quasi-hangout. You know, "Oh, I'd like to do [suggested activity] tomorrow night, but I have practice. We have a show on [day of week]. You should totally come! Hope to see you there!" They are not looking to spend time together, but to amass cute ladies in their audience.
I'm in a foul mood today for no apparent reason. I woke up and was upset with the kitten for not waking me up on time; it's not as though he is a feline alarm clock, but in my groggy state I felt it was his responsibility to get me going.
Work had a few irritations. Nothing huge, just obnoxious enough to make me eat half a box of Thin Mints, angrily crunching them as I watched Rosie. My mood darkened as I realized I was becoming the target demographic for subscribers to Redbook.
Fortunately, some sunshine and lemonade—the sweet and the sour—turned the day around. And then I heard from Maysan, K-Sto, and Todd. The afternoon conquers the morning, and evening brings free fun museum activities!
I'm in a foul mood today for no apparent reason. I woke up and was upset with the kitten for not waking me up on time; it's not as though he is a feline alarm clock, but in my groggy state I felt it was his responsibility to get me going.
Work had a few irritations. Nothing huge, just obnoxious enough to make me eat half a box of Thin Mints, angrily crunching them as I watched Rosie. My mood darkened as I realized I was becoming the target demographic for subscribers to Redbook.
Fortunately, some sunshine and lemonade—the sweet and the sour—turned the day around. And then I heard from Maysan, K-Sto, and Todd. The afternoon conquers the morning, and evening brings free fun museum activities!
Labels: crabbiness
Dear IBM,
Very little is calming to me these days, and the few moments of respite I find are those of my evening neighborhood walks. Last time I took a stroll, I saw your lame-ass graffiti ad campaign.
Peace, love, and Linux, my foot. Where do you get off spray-painting your silly advertisements in MY fair Chicago neighborhood? How would you like it if I spray-painted the hell out of your precious Mies Van der Rohe headquarters downtown? I'm sure you wouldn't like it, and so I hope you understand how much I dislike your intrusion into my sidewalks.
I'll never buy IBM products again, and I will encourage my friends and coworkers to do the same until I see you trolls cleaning the sidewalk. Ogilvy and Mather can kiss my ass, too.
Honestly,
AT
Very little is calming to me these days, and the few moments of respite I find are those of my evening neighborhood walks. Last time I took a stroll, I saw your lame-ass graffiti ad campaign.
Peace, love, and Linux, my foot. Where do you get off spray-painting your silly advertisements in MY fair Chicago neighborhood? How would you like it if I spray-painted the hell out of your precious Mies Van der Rohe headquarters downtown? I'm sure you wouldn't like it, and so I hope you understand how much I dislike your intrusion into my sidewalks.
I'll never buy IBM products again, and I will encourage my friends and coworkers to do the same until I see you trolls cleaning the sidewalk. Ogilvy and Mather can kiss my ass, too.
Honestly,
AT
Labels: crabbiness
