Old-guy ponytails

Dude, don’t you know that size—or in this case, length—doesn’t matter?

When I see someone sporting a tired, scraggly ponytail, I have to muster every bit of self-control not to whip out some scissors and cut off that last stand of I don’t know what. More frayed than a jute rope and with more split ends than Courtney Love 11 days into a psychotic break, I don’t get the point. Mullets at least have that “business in the front, party in the back” thing going on (but believe me, they are punchworthy too, which just goes to show how far down on the follicular food chain these limp locks are). What can you say about a man with a mangy ponyfail? Hippie in the front, dying hippie in the back? Often, the ponytail accompanies a balding pate, which, guess what?, isn’t fooling anyone. No amount of length on your last 134 strands will compensate for the loss of hair everywhere else on your dome.

Trust me, trust anyone other than your misguided, insecure sense of style and chop that napeworm off. You will look hip, not hippie, as though you exist on this side of the Millennium. And if you don’t tame the beast, I might not be so kind next time I happen upon you.

Fad diets

Say what you will about Richard Simmons but dude knows his stuff. I met with him once and he lamented dumbass diets and the Olive Gardenization of America. As he knows, the way to permanent weight loss is through exercise and portion control.

That’s it.

There’s no secret combination. There’s no herbal supplement magic bullet. Much like Richard, the solution isn’t sexy or hip like South Beach on a Friday night. Cabbage soup isn’t involved. Eating buttloads of bacon, macadamia nuts, and other fatty foods isn’t the way to lose the back fat (believe me, I tried). I got nothin’ bad to say about flaxseed oil and cranberry juice, but you also need to downsize from a trough to a bowl. Just a thought.

And while you’re at it, pull on your big-boy nutters and start sweatin’ to the oldies. It won’t be long before you’re in the zone. If you need to lose weight fast, however, you can always give the amputation diet a go.

(Photo: efmnutrition.com)

Fennel

I didn’t like black licorice when my grandpa offered it to me those many years ago, I don’t fancy ouzo, pastis and absinthe as much as I long to be a sophisticated broad abroad, and I don’t like fennel in my food now or anytime soon.

I don’t want to be an herb hater, I really don’t, so I recently gave it a another go. Like I do every now and again with cole slaw and endive, I thought I’d give it a second chance. I thought that maybe my palate had changed, maybe I’d suddenly develop an affinity for anise flavor. Yeah, no. Chewing on a fennel seed just made me want to wash my mouth out with coriander. Fennel may taste like anise, but it also tastes like ass.

Tom’s of Maine makes a fennel toothpaste, which must really fly off the shelves. Why doesn’t dude and his hippie helpers just make some scat or guano toothpaste while they're at it? Brushing my teeth with the very flavor I’m trying to scrub out of my mouth seems a bit absurd, even to me.

I’m going to take my mortar and pestle to this nasty piece of work and crush it completely before chucking it in the dustbin. Finally, a way to stomach fennel without it leaving a bad taste in my mouth.

(Photo: australherbs.com.au)

Impatient bus drivers

Don't pretend you don't see me running up to the door. And in case you are visually impaired (always a bonus in a person responsible for the safety of the masses), you’ve got to hear me pounding on the side of the bus and yelling at you to freakin’ stop.

What did I ever do to you?

Someone once told me, “Never run for a bus.” Maybe I read it in a fortune cookie. Regardless, wise words these. When I disregarded this advice and wiped out on the pavement in front of a busload of people as I was sprinting to the bus stop, I prayed that the driver would, as usual, just keep on truckin’. Oh no. This mutant driver actually stopped, opened the door, and asked if I was okay. Yeah, except that my road rage has now been joined by road rash, and I look like a walking HAZMAT area.

The upshot of all this is that at least I know the secret to getting you to step on the brakes when you see me coming. But even maiming myself for a bus ride is a crapshoot. I can’t really punch you in the face since you keep driving away but you’d better watch your rear-view mirrors. I might just decide to run for a bus. Your bus.

(Photo: seacat.files.wordpress.com)

Windsocks

Your windsock stays on my mind. In fact, it’s burned into my retina. I’ve tried to consider the lilies of the field, really I have, but I can’t. Because your giant rainbow windsock is spoiling, spinning, and polluting my view.

I already knew you were a Notre Dame fan, thanks to the bumper sticker, license plate frame, and leprechaun antenna ball on your PT Snoozer. I don’t need to be reminded of your misguided love, because frankly, I could care less. And like your unfathomable affection for the Fightin’ Irish, I also don’t give a rat’s ass about your penchant for pirates, whales, or snowmen. Why do you feel the need to clog up your yard, porch, stoop, or front door with these garbage bags?

Do you keep your seasonal or themed windsocks in the garage next to the extra lawn gnomes, gazing balls, and inflatable snow globes? Since your windsocks are most likely flame-retardant, I think the best way to clean house is to sew these polyester air condoms together, fill them with helium, and create a hot-air balloon that can transport these back to hell, or at least to the local landfill.

(Photo: piratecorner.ca)

Excessive punctuation

[Sorry for the short hiatus, folks. I was traveling and moving but not to worry, I'm back and as cranky as ever.]

I get it!!! I really do!!! Srsly!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I know you’re excited or scared or confused or slumped over the keyboard so your ear keeps hitting the question mark key. There’s no need to drive home the point by slapping me in the face with punctuation marks or poking me in the eye with those goddamn extraneous exclamation points.

I’m a big advocate of everything in moderation and yep, that applies to my semicolons. Ever since high school, I figured there was a perfect way to express anything through words. Words. Not punctuation. Spend more time conveying what you mean through language, please, and leave those poor, defenseless exclamation marks alone. What did they ever do to you?

F. Scott Fitzgerald said, “Cut out all those exclamation marks. An exclamation mark is like laughing at your own jokes.” Word, Fitz, word. Can you imagine the difference it would make if he had thrown in one or several exclamation points to his otherwise gorgeous WASPy text, such as when Gatsby describes Daisy?

The original: “Her voice is full of money.”
The icky: “Her voice is full of money!!!”

A beautiful observation becomes the sort of squawking, self-congratulatory promise that a Billy Mays ad delivers. Less is more. Period.

(Art: collectingtokens.wordpress.com)

Celebrity fashion lines

Lindsay Lohan recently collaborated with Ungaro for a train wreck of a fashion show. Why would a venerable Paris fashion house trust its reputation and scissors to a girl whose nickname is “Firecrotch?” She certainly hasn’t set the world on fire with her style, which lately has involved a lot of leggings. They weren’t a good idea in the 80s and they aren’t now.

But LiLo isn’t the only celeb I have a beef with. I pretty much loathe every actress or singer who thinks that, because she got a thumbs-up on the red carpet from the TV Guide Channel, she should develop a clothing line. Hilary Duff and Lauren Conrad (who sort of went to school for fashion) have had lines at Kohl’s. Amanda Bynes had one at the now-defunct Steve & Barry’s. These chicks are hardly out of their teens and yet they are dictating style to middle America middle-schoolers.

Of course it’s easy for a celebutard to look good but it doesn’t mean that they should start designing sequined leotards or introducing a line of hair extensions. Plus, by and large, they aren’t designing a single sorry thing. They just lend their name and favorite color and, poof, poop is being shipped to Wal-Mart.

Like the dude in The Crucible said, in the end, all you have is your reputation and your name. Well, these rag hags will go to the grave knowing they exploited children in Southeast Asia, expended the world’s resources and for what? Snagged, damaged thneeds that are going to wind up at Goodwill next to collection of abandoned Cosby sweaters.

In a word, Firebotch.