Holy Shit. Instead of sending me a bad dating story, someone emailed me requesting MY advice. Terrible judgement. I don’t know shit about anything. But I’ll give it a shot and pray I don’t ruin this girl’s life.
“Hi Molly,
I know you asked for a dating story, but I actually have a dating question lol. I met this guy at work and he has a girlfriend, but…they were “on a break” when we started hanging out. Last week he took me to the Olive Garden then we parked at Wollaston beach for long time and told me he really liked me and would cut things completely off with his girlfriend. Now I am receiving text messages from the girlfriend saying they are still together and he hung out with her after I had dropped him off from our Olive Garden date. He said that she’s just fucking crazy and making things up and to block her from texting or calling me, but my friends think I should just end things with him now. Do you think that he is worth fighting for? “
My response:
NO. He is not worth it. You know why I say this? Because HE TOOK YOU TO THE FUCKING OLIVE GARDEN ON YOUR FIRST DATE. I hope he at least took you to the Stoughton Olive Garden, rather than South Bay. Then again, you said that you dropped him off, so I would hope that YOU respect yourself enough to at least have gone to the Stoughton Olive Garden. Do you realize that the Olive Garden is the fast food of Italian? I’m no snob, I’ve gone, the soup is bomb.com. But I also think that Rodeo cheeseburgers from BK are bomb.com. Olive Garden on a FIRST DATE?! Fuck that. Raise your standards.
As for the girlfriend of Rico Suave, tell her you’re all set with dating a guy who considers microwaved tortellini to be first date-worthy. Thanks for writing. When your reading my blog, your family.
So I had recently broken up with my boyfriend of 4 1/2 years and I met this guy who was a lawyer. He is friends with my best friend’s older brother. He seemed nice enough and I figured he would be fun for a little while and he could take me out to dinner, so we started dating. We went on a couple of dates which was fun. My best friend got a promotion at work and she was going to dinner at Maggianos with her boyfriend to celebrate. I figure, what the hell, let’s go too.
I get to his house and he wasn’t even there yet. He shows up 30 minutes later saying he was with a client but asks me to drive. I figure, hey, he must not know how to get anywhere but Quincy like the rest of the guys I’ve ever dated, so I thought nothing of it. I drove into Maggianos and valet-parked my car. We got there and he proceeded to order 5 ROUNDS of Sambucca and Bud Light. He gets so hammered he starts snapping at the waitress, calling her honey and slobbering all over his plate. Then the main entree came in. He started stacking all the plates together and saying we were done. Figuring I didn’t want to ruin the rest of the night for my best friend and her boyfriend, I put down my credit card to pay for the meal so we could leave. We get outside and are waiting for the car and he’s like, “Let’s take a cab home.” I told him I’d rather wait for my car.
The car finally comes after what seems like an eternity and we start to drive home. I figure, it’s only a 15min car ride, I’ll drop him off and never have to see him again. So we start driving and hit traffic on friggen 93. The cars are dead-stopped and we are in the middle lane about 1mi away from the Neponset Bridge exit. Silence. All of a sudden he wakes up from his drunken nap and asks me if I’m mad at him. I reply that I didn’t understand why he needed to get so shitfaced and that I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see him again. He then takes off his seatbelt, jumps out of the car into 93, and I never see him again.
So this chick always leaves me the most insane (but funny) comments. I was pretty pumped to see her name in my inbox. I won’t give names, but her style of writing might seem familiar if you follow me on Facebook. Best ending ever. Keep sending me your bad stories. I love them!
Hey hey!
So as if my life didn’t suck already I have a nice bad date for ya! So the first week of August 2006 I went to Staples to look at a digital camera because you know it WAS 2006 I should have probably got a digital camera by then, any who my fat ass was there (well I wasn’t fat then) and some weird looking leprechaun guy walks up to me and asks if I need help. Um, do you work here? You don’t have a red shirt and a fucking easy button, who are you? No, he doesn’t work there, but his BFF does. I say I don’t need help, but he still follows me around like some sad puppy. Whatever. After about 15 mins of shopping I’m annoyed so I start to leave. He comes up to me and feeds me the line, “I’m sorry but your eyes are so pretty, can I just have your number and we can talk more?” Whatever, my eyes
are kick ass, the bluest ever, so I guess so. I mean he was a creep, but how else am I suppose to find true love when I’m 24 and have a 6 year old. Yeah, I’m a whore like that. Anyway, he calls me a few hours later and asks if I
want to hang out. That’s nice. Fine, whatever. Maybe he is an alright kid who’s got his shiznat together: job, car, house, all the things most men our age lack.
So I was waiting for his call back because he had to go to work for a few hours and would be out around 9, and then we could hang out. No biggie. 9, :930, 9:45…I decide fuck it, I’m smoking a bone. I get high as a kite and bam!, he calls at 10:30 and says he has been trying for 2 hours and it went to voice mail. Shit, it is 2006 and Nextel is declining and I have shitty service. Whatever, I go to meet him. We drive to Nantrashit beach and hang out, then the stupid fucker asks ASKS to kiss me. Are you serious bro? He kissed me and he was sooooo awful he bit my lip. Then I decide to say, “Hey, want to go somewhere else?”. Sure. Off to Great Hill we go. What happens there? Yup, fuck, I just brought him to Great Hill. Next thing I know, my pants are down. The next couple days are a blur, but it involved a lot of that. 10 months later I realized this date was the worst date of my life because I was suddenly giving birth to his child. I already fucked up once, now look I’m doing it again, yay! A year and 10 months after that, the bad date came back to haunt me again. I got married to this fucking guy.
Really does any other date suck that much?
(I love love love bad dating stories. Send your unfortunate circumstances to m3mckenna@hotmail.com, so we can all laugh at you. I mean, WITH you. Be a good sport!).
Hey Molly,
I had met this guy in a bar after a Sox game last year. He was cute, seemed alright and after talking for a while I gave him my number. I didn’t really think anything would come out of it, seeing as I was 8 Bud Lights deep at that point myself. To my surprise the next day he texted me, and we started talking. Well having as much as a conversation as you can while texting at least. For the next couple of weeks we talked off and on, and he eventually asked me out. He was from Providence RI, and I agreed to drive down there and meet up for dinner. We decided to meet at Dave & Busters and have dinner and go from there. When we met up I defiantly must have had beer goggles on that night at the bar when I met him, because he was not what I remembered AT ALL! But hey okay, physical appearance isn’t everything right? Pshh yah okay. So once we were seated in the restaurant he leans over and asks me ” Is it okay if we split the check?
….Wait, what?!?! Are you serious? He invites me out on a date and wants to split the check?? Where has chivalry gone? Now in all seriousness, I am not one of those spoiled girls that expects the man to always pay. The first date though absolutely. Not to mention I had driven to another state to begin with. But of course, I say thats fine. Well I tried to look past the fact that I was on a date with the worlds poorest douche bag in the entire state of Rhode Island. Let me tell you that didnt last for long.
As he proceeded to order the following:
-4 Beers
- Appetizer ( I didnt eat any of it )
-$22 Steak
-Dessert ( when I made it clear I didn’t want any )
I ordered :
-Water with Lemon
-Bowl of Clam Chowder
Totaling $8.00
Yup, apparently he expected me to pay for his gormet, 3 course meal with out flinching. Damn I should have gone all out if I knew we were playing this game. Shiiiiiit. After we ordered he told me that I was “too far away”and proceeded to sit next to me on the same side of the booth. Can you say awkward much? Oh man … Through out the entire night he was extremely touchy feely. He was rubbing my leg a little too high for my liking and attempted the nonchalant boob graze more than once. I felt so uncomfortable, but I managed to carry on with the conversation.
When the check came I threw down $20 thinking that was MORE than enough. The check came to $72.00. He looked at me and said “I actually only have a $10 on me, do you have any more cash? I was in shock, I reached into my purse and pulled out my credit card. I could not believe it, takes a girl on a date and only brings $10 with them? All I could think to myself was I am such a pushover. What girl in their right mind would sit through this horrible date and not get up and leave? Let alone pay for the entire date.
As the night came to a close he offered to walk me to my car, and reached for my hand while walking through the mall. It was the most awkward thing ever. I am 25 yrs old and I couldn’t tell you the last time I held a guys hand. To make it worse he was one of those guys who has clammy hands and it was just gross. Ughhhhh. When we finally got to my car, he went in for the kiss. I did my best to dodge it but he planted one on the side of my face. I hugged him and he went for one again. I told him I don’t kiss on the first date. He said “Okay thats fine, I guess I can respect that.” Yeah … well I clearly wasn’t missing out on anything if you ask me.
As I turned to get into my car he slapped my ass! Not just some little love tap, I mean he really slapped my ass, you could hear the crack echo through the parking garage. I managed to get in my car, quickly locked my doors and sped off. WOW is all I could muster up, I thought the last 4 hours were a dream. I couldn’t believe I just sat through the most epic fail of a date ever. On the hour and 20 min ride home, I played back the night over and over in my head and thought of where all the places the night went wrong. There were too many to count. By the time I got home I needed a stiff drink or two. Needless to say there was no second date.
Have you ever tried to do some of the shit that you did when you were a kid, and it’s just not the same? I have, and I know that unless I ate mushrooms, it’s just gotten old. Have you ever thought things were so cool when you were little, and now you’re like thank GOD my mom didn’t let me do that? There are so many things that you could get away with as a kid, but now you just look like a crackhead when you do these things. Here’s what I’m talking about:
Using a gluestick: I hadn’t used a gluestick for years, up until about a month ago when a project at work called for it. I was kind of excited. I felt like it was “activity time” at work. Then I opened the cap and began gluestickin’. And you know what? It sucked. It the weakest adhesive I’ve ever experienced. Weaker than the blue sticky shit that teachers used back in elementary school to hang shit on the walls. I got frustrated and used tape instead.
Lunchables: I don’t know about anyone else, but I was a brown bag girl. I had smooshed peanut butter and jellies every day. Made with love, smooshed by my trapper keeper. This used to bother me as a child because I’d see some of my friends come in to school with Lunchables, which was pretty cool back in the 90′s. Now I am grateful to my mom for not letting me eat Lunchables. It’s basically Spam with a cool name, marketed towards kids. Unless you were in the mood for cold pizza. I realize now that the parents of the kids who had Lunchables everyday were merely alcoholics who couldn’t find the fluff because they put it in the fridge when they were blacked out. Just kidding, kind of.
Jump on a moonwalk: Remember your spoiled friend who always had moonwalks at his/her birthday parties? They were the most popular kid on the block and when you saw one of those being blown up in your neighborhood, you prayed for an invite. Well, my sister rented a moonwalk for my niece’s 5th birthday party and I thought the same thing I did back then: I hope she invites me to jump in that moonwalk. She didn’t. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t jump in that bad boy when she was in bed and I was drunk. I rally up some friends, drink a few beverages, then hop onto that Dora moonwalk. What people don’t realize is how exhausting jumping on those things really are. I lasted 2 minutes. Maybe I’m just out of shape. Probably. Definitely.
Peeing your pants: If you do this when you’re little, grown ups feel bad for you. You do this when you ARE a grown up and people think you have a disgusting illness/alcoholism. Don’t worry guys, I haven’t tried this. But I have lost respect for those who have. Just kidding again, kind of. But yeah, the same rules apply for nosebleeds and puking. Nosebleeds when you’re old just shows how big of a cokehead you are. As for puking, well, when you call in sick due to puking, your boss just thinks you were out boozing or that you’re pregnant. Stomach flu just doesn’t sound plausible when there’s a better excuse out there.
Barbies: This goes with really any game involving a storyline. My niece has a shit-ton of Barbies. My boyfriend’s little sister does, too. So I play mad Barbies. Mad Barbies. Would have been great back when I was 6-7 years old, but now it’s just chaos. You would think kids would be creative when you find out the names of their Barbies – my nieces two favorites are named “Tinsel” and “Ornament”. Usually my niece makes me be the wicked witch Barbie when I play with her. Interesting character, so I try my best to put some spice into the storyline. Like make the witch kidnap the Barbies and play Russian roulette with them in the Barbie camper. But then my niece is like, “No, that’s NOT how you play. Make the witch knock at the door to the camper for a sleepover with Barbie and Kelly.”. And if I don’t follow her whack ass storyline, then she tantrums. It was something I loved so much as a kid, but now 5-6 year old’s just suck all of the fun out of it. It got old.
Pegging: How free did you feel as a kid when you were being pegged on your friend’s Dyno? Wind in your hair, ring pop in your mouth because you were a bad ass who wasn’t afraid of choking to death. You know what you look like if you’re an adult on the back of a bike? A broke-ass, white-trash junkie on your way to make a quick transaction in an elementary school parking lot.
Tantrums:Were you an only child? Because if you’re over the age of 7-9 and throwing a tantrum, no one gives a fuck. Remember that.
Taking a tubby with siblings: Did your mom ever take one of those adorable pictures of you in the tub with your sister or brother when you are like 3 years old? How cute. But how fucking disgusting if you do that when your older. (Refer to my blog entitled “Creepy Siblings” for more information on incest.)
That’s really all I can think of right now. How about you guys?
Went to a Nicki Minaj concert!!!!! Actually, that’s a drag queen named Destiny from Jacques Cabaret in Boston. But doesn’t she look like Nicki Minaj? Ladies, if you want to have a hilariously good time, go to this place. It’s fucking fun. Make it a ladies night. Or bring your boyfriend, but trust that they will be all over him.
Got some Real Deal: Go to Jamaica Plain and find this place. Get some buffalo chicken. Or get anything you want. It’s all bomb.com. Maybe you’ll have a Barney sighting.Utilized Pinterest: It was a very sober Saturday for Molly. It was also filled with funfetti flavored baked goods. See those icecream cone cupcakes? I made those. But not those exact ones…because this is how it looks in real life: Not quite as fancy as Pinterest makes them look. Not to mention I burnt the shit out of the second batch and overflowed every single cone. Whatever. And because I love funfetti flavoring way too much, I also made this shit: Funfetti cake flavored fudge. Do you like how I ate half of a piece then put it back into the pan to take a picture of it? Perfect!
Got Dutch-Ovened: My boyfriend is a man-child. This is not humorous.
Did hearing that familiar jingle tickle your neurotransmitters and make you want to shop, ladies? Not sure I’ve ever met a female who doesn’t love the Christmas Tree Shop. If there is someone out there who doesn’t, let me know. Because if you know of a female who doesn’t like it, they are probably on hardcore drugs that is blocking there bargain sensors, and they need an intervention stat. The Christmas Tree Shop is the best place to peruse shelves filled with the most random bullshit that no one really needs for 17 hours straight. That store has everything! Fuckin’, statues of animals for your ugly garden, baskets, Easter shit, salt shakers, Fiddle Faddle, tablecloths, everything. Women enter that store and walk every single aisle of that place approximately 17 times each before they are ready to consider checking out with the old lady in the green smock. Where do I even begin?!
When I was a little girl, I used to get so sad. Not because I didn’t have a Barbie Jeep Power Wheels (okay, that made me sad, too), but I was sad because I could never find useless memorabilia that had my name on it. Wasn’t the name “Molly” becoming more popular? Why the fuck couldn’t I find a barrette, stamp, comb, or fake license plate with the name “Molly” printed on it? Then, God answered my 9 year old prayers. Actually, my mom did by driving me to Avon. From that day on I could pour my blue Teenie drinks into this monogrammed mug: Okay, I lied. I didn’t own that mug. But had I seen it at the CTS back then, you better believe I would have owned it. My point here is that the Christmas Tree Shop made it possible for someone named Molly to buy some shit with the name Molly scrawled on it. And for that, I am forever grateful.I think one of the main reasons that women love the Christmas Tree Shop is picture frames. Women feel that there is no such thing as too many picture frames to throw around a crappy Quincy apartment. Or in my case, to hang up all over the 3 season’s room turned bedroom I live in at my parent’s house. Whatever. As females, we want all our guests to feel welcome in our humble abode. We do this by purchasing 57ish “LIVE, LOVE, LAUGH” frames. Preferably in black. Lucky for us, the Christmas Tree Shop is basically the “LIVE, LOVE, LAUGH” factory. So get a cart and throw every single “LIVE, LOVE, LAUGH” frame you can find. No matter how many you get, the total never exceeds 20 bucks. How is that possible? I don’t know. Christmas Tree Shop MAGIC. When you get home, put all the pictures you have of you and your drunk friends standing at various bars into the frames. Who gives a shit if you have no friends? Just keep the sample pictures that come in the frames and tell everyone the unfamiliar faces are your cousins from east bum shit. Beautiful. Now everyone who enters your place knows that you are living, loving, and laughing, no matter how many behavioral meds you are on. And you know what makes me feel super powerful? Dragging a male to the Christmas Tree Shop. Men are like children when it comes to errands. They don’t want to go to the supermarket unless it’s for Shark Bites or beer. And they REALLY don’t want to go to the Christmas Tree Shop. That’s why you tell them that you guys are going on a “Surprise Mystery Trip”, and watch their dreams die as soon as you pull off the Jordan’s Furniture exit. Because honestly, what is in Avon that is appealing to men? I just tell my boyfriend that if he stops bitching we can stop at Newbury Comics on the way home for some Boba Fett merchandise. He should count his blessings that we aren’t at the Cape Cod Christmas Tree Shop, where none of his boys can hear him scream for help. You know, the one with the windmill. God, I fucking lovethat one.
Another section of the Christmas Tree Shop that I love is the art and mirror section. I don’t understand art, but everyone needs some abstract art to make themselves look complicated/intellectual. Or you can just be a townie and by those stupid pieces of painted wood that have your town written on them. I keep looking for a Quincy one, but the douchebag company that makes those signs are really favoring Hanover and Hingham. My mom’s favorite section is the seasonal section. This is the best place to buy all your tacky, I mean BEAUTIFUL, wreaths, Easter bunny figurines, scarecrows, and Santa window stickers. Exactly what your house needs around every single holiday. Also, every Christmas Tree Shop visit try to remember to stroll down the food aisle for some of the weirdest, most random condiments that you cannot find anywhere else. Raspberry-horseradish sauce for a dollar? Fuck it, why not? Toss it in the cart.
So I hope next weekend you will save room for a trip to the Christmas Tree Shop. I tried to drag my boyfriend there this past weekend, but I think God is definitely a dude because my new car started smoking and stalled before I made it off of my street. This was obviously a big set back, but there’s always next weekend. And the weekend after that. I just hope to never act like anyone in those fucking commercials. Getting all excited about fucking doorknob pillows and thermometer forks. Calm down. Also, I wonder if the lady in that commercial who’s husband was PUMPED for those stockings/statues knows that he is gay?
Thanks per usual to MM!
Update!: I have since moved out of the 3 seasons room at my parents. Moving on UP, to a deluxe Quincy Center apartment in the sky.
It’s Friday. Fuck yeah. And the unseasonably warm weather is reminding me of Summer and the apocalypse. Now, take a minute at your desk, or your couch (mute Maury for a second), close your eyes, and envision the most relaxing place you can imagine. Is it Castle Island on a warm summer day, no clouds in sight? Is it on a canoe in the middle of the fucking sea? Is it on a hammock somewhere in India for whatever reason you fancy? I can tell you where it’s not: Nantasket beach. I get it baby boomers, Nanny beach is your first love. You had summer romances with Hull locals before Hull was considered the armpit of the South Shore (Weymouth: You are the B.O.). You rode a roller coaster that made you shit your pants because screws were falling out with every steep dip the rickety cart took. You ate fried dough and laughed and sun bathed. I’m so happy for you. You got Nantasket in it’s glory days. But look at the above picture and realize that the American dream ended a long time ago at this beach. It’s an overpopulated, polluted, trash-fest nowadays. And every girl from the South Shore you see beyond the wall isn’t drinking Kool-Aid in those cups. They are drinking the warm beers that were in their back seat from the night before. At 11 AM. I remember as a child, my mom, along with 5 million other South Shore moms, packing up our ’87 Chevy Celebrity station wagon (leather in the way back trunk seats that burned your tiny behind), tangy lemonade in a jug, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We would hit 3A and be on our way. Upon arrival you need to find a parking space. This is half of your Nanny beach experience…finding parking. Nowadays you can find prime parking if you want to PAY 17 DOLLARS! Like, what?! No! No, no no! The beach is so crowded that you see nothing but rainbows as you look into the miles long stretch of umbrellas. Good luck finding your whiny 5 year old brat a place to build a castle. You can’t even fit a fucking shovel and pale between the millions of towels that overlap each other. Want to go into the water? That’s all well and fun, but be aware that you are tossing a football around in pee. Don’t try to give me that, “Oh, the water is warm due to the heat wave this week!”, it’s pee. And moms, be aware that when your kids go out too deep, that there are 17 billion other kids out in that urine that look exactly like your little satan spawn. Good luck.I don’t want to be too mean to Nantasket, since I spent much of my childhood there (and I kind of like Barefoot Bob’s). I loved that carousel. The positive part of your beach day is that you can stop at a t-shirt store and pick up a classy and beautiful sarong that has “NANTASKET BEACH HULL, MA” embroidered over the Hawaiian flowers. You go girl. I always knew you were the stylish broad I thought you were. At Nanny beach you also get to look at the high class locals, chain smoking on the wall with giant chains hanging from their chests and “IRISH PRIDE” inked on their bacne. You know you love bad boys. For those who REALLY want to submerge themselves into the Nantasket beach culture, remember that the Arbor Inn Motor Lodge is also on 3A. Make it a romantic night for you and your babe. Wink, wink. And remember: there is nothing like laying in the sand that NEVER comes out of your towels because it’s the molasses of sand, while eating your greasy fisherman’s platter from Joseph’s, sucking down a Del’s Lemonade and having 800 seagulls attack you and shit all over you and your Sun-In drenched hair. Why even bother trying to get up out of your chair? This is TOO relaxing. Nanny beach is the most un-relaxing beach I have ever experienced and I wish everyone would move on and just give it time to recover from the years of abuse it has received. I understand that people don’t like change. I understand that people are accustomed to Nantasket. It is the Quincy Center bars of beaches. But please, take an extra 20 minutes out of your day (the amount of time you find looking for parking anyways), and go to Marshfield or something. Stop being lazy. And baby boomers: Paragon Park is demolished and so are your dreams of taking that pottery class you’ve been swearing you are going to take to get away from the kiddies. Move on to something nicer.
Have you ever wondered what life would be like without any alcohol? I try not to. But sometimes, I think to myself all of the productive things I could accomplish if I laid off the sauce forever. As you read my list, please play the following Tim McGraw song, “Live Like You Were Dying”, so you can get the full effect of a life of sobriety.
Go to the movies: Um, this is going to be a hard list to come up with. But seriously, that’s what sober people do, right? I suppose I couldn’t go Lux level however, since I am notorious for hitting the waitress button numerous times for more cocktails. Sigh…
Be skinnier: Because quitting drinking is a diet in itself. I just always thought calorie counting while drinking was what Skinny Girl Margarita’s were for. I could also ignore fast food restaurants because let’s face it, we get fast food because it’s 2am and we are drunk and restless on our way home.
Draw a still life of a bowl of fruit: If I can’t drink alcohol infused into crushed up grapes, fuck it, why not draw some grapes?
Watch the movie “Ghost Dad”: If only they’d play that classic lux level. I’d pay to see it again. The best part is when *SPOILER ALERT* he comes back to life in the end of the movie and you’re all like, “Thank God, the Cos is back!”. Great movie all around.
Play Scrabble: I am pretty good at this game when I play while having a glass of Pino, I bet I’d be even better while sober. Just with less confidence. The key to the game Scrabble is not about long and fancy words. It is all about obtaining the letter “Z”. If you can get “ZITI” on the board, bam! Game over for your opponent.
Preach about sobriety: If I can’t beat all of those recovering addicts preaching and reciting the Serenity Prayer all over the internet, then why not join them? Instead of blogging about Call of Duty problems, white trash, Doug Funnie mental evaluations, and the gas pumping guy who looks like Lionel Ritchie/works at every APrime gas station in Quincy, I could just blog about my sobriety in every single entry. I could like, type the Serenity Prayer in different fonts and make it look elegant and classy. Fuck it, right? I could also go out to bars and order water on the rocks and judge my friends as loudly as possible until they hate me.
Eat hummus: It just seems like a food that a sober person would eat. Hummus. Yeah, definitely would eat some hummus. I bet dead sober people also go for a run after eating hummus, then brag about it at the dinner table.
Play the clarinet: Don’t mean to toot my own horn here, pun intended, but I played the clarinet back in elementary school. Was in the All Star elementary school band. Met at Lincoln Hancock every Tuesday, which I wasn’t pleased about, as I was of Wollaston descent and preferred to stay out of the west side. But nonetheless, I played a mean “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas”. One of my friends even taught me how to play “My Heart Will Go On” on that bad boy. I was so good that if I was remotely alive at the time, I could have played on the Titanic as it was sinking to calm passengers down…if that even really happened. I rely too much on movies for facts, I guess. My loss.
Take up smoking: Hey, we all have vices. I’m going to need one, too. I can’t just play instruments, preach, and watch “Ghost Dad” all day. And hummus won’t fulfill shit.
Sport a fanny pack: Sounds about right.
Pet a dolphin: I don’t want to swim with a dolphin because I’m a pussbag. I think it would be inspiring to pet one on the head instead.
Play the parachute game: Remember in elementary school when your gym teacher would break out that giant parachute and make you play stupid games with it? Well, if I were sober I’d purchase a parachute and play a game again. Why? Because I can think of a way to incorporate drinking into pretty much any game ever made except the parachute game (unless you put a drunk person in the middle of the parachute and toss him around until he pukes?). I assume it’s the only sober game I could play.
So there you have it. That is my list of things I would do if I was told that I could never drink again. Thank God it hasn’t come to that. Until then, I’ll just drink until the sequel to “Ghost Dad” comes out.
Every time I get writer’s block and ask people for some inspiration, I get at least one person telling me to write about the Red Line. Fabulous idea. The only problem with writing about the Red Line is that it is difficult to sum up. Before I start ranting I want to clarify that I love the Red Line. It gets me where I need to go and I don’t think I’ve ever been late for work due to delays. People need to realize that delays happen and you need to leave for work expecting a delay. By that I mean, leave early enough so that if there is a delay you can still make it in on time or close to when you are scheduled. Kind of like driving to work in Boston, expect traffic, plan accordingly, don’t blame the MBTA for your dumbassness. I also hate to see statuses bitching that the train broke down and there is a delay. Hasn’t your piece of shit hoopty ever broken down? Isn’t that why you’re on the train in the first place? Exactly. Shit happens, things break down. In the words of John Bender, “Screws fall out all the time, sir. The world is an imperfect place.”. Anyways, I work in Chinatown and I don’t want to pay for parking every day. Shit’s expensive. Not to mention with traffic, driving in would require me to leave even earlier than taking the T, and I like sleep too much to commit to that. So yup, I love the T. But now I am going to rant about it. Not about the MBTA itself, but about the passengers that piss me off almost every single day. Then you can comment and say, “Well don’t take the train if you are just going to bitch about the people riding it!”, and I will say, “Well don’t read my blog if you’re a douche!”. Sound good? Didn’t think so. Now here are my pet peeves about riding Boston’s public transportation:
Farting: Why do people fart when they are on the T? We are in a confined space with a ton of people smushed together awkwardly. All of us are probably going to work. We are not in the jolliest of moods because it’s the ass crack of dawn. What gives you the right to fart? Do you want us to throw up? Sometimes I think people are so angry about their lives that they fart as the train doors open before they get off at their stop. To these people I say: You’re an asshole. No pun intended.
Taking up 2 seats: Sometimes when I’m really tired I want to sit down on the Red Line’s ugly, multi-colored, 80′s style patterned seats that probably smell. Upon entering the train I see a seat that is not being occupied by a human. It is being occupied by a bag. Or by an obese person’s left ass cheek. Look, I don’t care how much your bag costs, pick it up and put it in your lap before someone pickpockets you to teach you a lesson. And if you are that fat guy who takes up 2 seats, let me just remind you that sitting is what got you into this mess. Maybe you should stand.
Throwing ‘bows: Sometimes T passengers piss me off before they even cross over the threshold into the train. I hear the Stephen Hawking, monotone, computerized voice tell me that the next train to Alewife is now arriving and I make my way to the edge of the yellow line and wait. The train pulls into the station, and I am happy to see the door is directly in front of me. Until BOOM! out of fucking nowhere, 8 different people run up on me and are throwing elbows to get in the door before me and find a seat. Are you that anxious to sit down!? Calm down! This is the morning commute, not Monday Night RAW. Tuck your ‘bows in. If not, I’ll give you a clothesline from hell when the train clears out at South Station.
The Orange Line: Half of the entire population on the Orange Line. If you’ve been on the Orange Line, you’ll have no questions and you’ll need no examples. Haven’t you ever heard that every time an IV drug user doses off on the Orange Line an angel loses it’s wings? Me either, that’s fucked up, but definitely plausible.
Not moving in: Look at the above picture. These guy’s are saying, “Hey, there is room for everyone on this fuckin’ train.”. Not on the Red Line, though. Sometimes I can see open seats from the window as I stand frustrated on the platform. Instead of someone sitting in the open seat to make more standing room, they just stand their like a dick. Move in. Jesus, Maria, y Jose!
Loud Phone Talkers: I will use a general quote to make my point: “Dude, guy, khed! My bruthah’s ovah in Dedham locked up with my baby’s fathahhh! Like what thah fahhhk, khed! Fahkin’ deadbeats, I’m tellin’ you’s! Anyways though, you’s gotta see my new phone, dude. Sick. It’s a Metro PCS or some shit. Fahkin’ mad nice”. Luckily, these people usually get off mid-commute at Broadway/Andrew. There are also those who talk loud to each other on the train. Usually these clowns are sitting side by side or right across from each other. THEY CAN HEAR YOU! Not racist, but the people who talk loudly on the train are almost ALWAYS speaking in another language. 99.9% of the time.
Backpackers: Are you planning on backpacking in Europe? Rule #1: Don’t stay in a hostel. Rule #2: Don’t allow your backpack to knock me over on your train commute to the airport. Okay, I get it, you’re not going backpacking. You’re heading to your class at Umass Boston. Hold your backpack in front you if the train is packed. If not, I’ll tell that same old lady who elbowed me getting on the train to elbow you.
Pole Hogs: Wow, “Pole Hogs”. That sounds dirty. Get your minds out of the gutter! By pole hogs, I mean people who grab the pole the second I let go of it to change the song on my i-pod. Then I have to get into this surfing-like pose to maintain my balance for the duration of the ride to Downtown Crossing. And when there is finally room to grab the pole, it’s all warm from someone else’s hand holding on, and I get skeeved out so I get back into surf stance. This whole paragraph sounds dirty. Guess my mind is always in the gutter.
So next time you are bitching about the Red Line service, read this blog entry and remind yourself not to do any of the above shit. Because if there is a delay AND people doing any of those things, you will be ultra pissed off. Especially if it’s a Monday morning.
