White man’s overbite

Along with Baby Fish Mouth, this term was immortalized in the classic rom-com, When Harry Met Sally, more than 20 years ago. You’d think that we whities would have learned by now not to bite our lip in an attempt to look cool while boogie-ing to "I'm Too Sexy." Because there is no way to look cool while doing the sprinkler or the lawn mower while mouthing “I"m too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt.”

I’m all for unself-conscious dancing—there’s far too much attention to cool these days—but white man’s overbite is not an uninhibited maneuver. It’s studied and contrived and about as sexy as Jon Heder and Will Ferrell in Blades of Glory.

(photo: msjamiekeiles.tumblr.com)

People who don't scoop their poop

Unless you’re some fancy-pants lord who has traveled through time with your German Shorthair Pointer and can’t wrap your 19th-century mind around the idea of picking up after your pooch, you’d best find something with which to clean the sidewalk or I’m going to mop the floor with you. Caught unawares? Find a big leaf, trash, your hat, something.

For the love of all that’s good and holy (i.e. my shoes), at least pull your pooch off the sidewalk so a hapless passerby doesn’t step in your shit. It’s as though you are giving a giant steaming fecal finger to the rest of us, which not only merits a punch in your thoughtless face, but a flaming bag of Great Dane scat on your doorstep as well.

(photo: yourdailythread.com)

Cosby sweaters

It makes me angry when I see the world’s resources going to create bad fashion. This pretty much means I’m angry every time I watch a rerun of The Cosby Show. Not to knit pick, but Bill’s sweaters were hiddy in the 80s; in 2011, they’re downright offensive.

Pull on one of these Magic Eye rejects (is that Malcolm Jamal Warner I see when I stare at that Not-So-Fair Isle pattern on your chest?), and you’ll pretty much look like a walking Christmas ornament or a straight-up billboard for fugly. Rugs belong on the floor, not encasing your body in a hot mess of wool.

Navel lint

Cue bombchickabowbow porn music. Turn the lights down. It’s time to get busy. In other words, it’s ON.

And as I go south, it’s suddenly, screechingly OFF. Like nine kinds of OFF.

I was sorta hoping that your body would be a wonderland. Instead, it’s a toxic waste dump up in there. Are you hoarding food or insulating for a hard winter? 
Check your nooks and crannies, people. Smelly belly button crud is a definite downer, and will probably ensure that I’m not going to be traveling down your yummy trail.

Rinsing does not a shower make.

(photo: scienceblogs.com)

Knighted celebrities

Hey you, with the fancy title and doodad pinned to your chest:

Did you rescue a damsel in distress? Pull a sword out of a stone? Do battle in the name of the crown?

No? What's that, you say? You played a vixen on Dynasty and bear responsibility for introducing shoulder pads to the 1980s? Showed your power by "Stayin' Alive" on the airwaves in 1977? Make expensive handbags only royalty and maybe Oprah can afford?

When Joan Collins, The Brothers Gibb (who really are Knights in White Satin), and Anya Hindmarch are getting knighted, call me a dissenter but it sort of seems like the Queen is handing out Grand Cross stars right and left. Does she pick up the medals in the bulk aisle at Costco?

Sir Bono sounds like a fancy cut of bone-in meat at a steakhouse. Damn—ahem, Dame—Kylie Minogue apparently nabbed the Order of the British Empire for her "services to music." David Beckham, OBE? More like OMG. I think Henry Winkler is the bomb, but I don't see how the "thumbs up" merits a knighthood for the Fonz.

Your Majesty: I know it's fun to have some hip playmates who will show up at state functions wearing inappropriate clothing and serenade you with a rousing rendition of "Can't Get You Outta My Head," but you don't have to buy your way into the cool-kid crowd. Unless one of these celebrities figures out how to slay a dragon—and I'm not talking about kicking a mean drug habit or getting a full sleeve tattoo of Grendel—put down the medals and pick up the phone. I'm sure they'd come for the night.

(photo: blogs.sfweekly.com)

Calorie-laden beverages

I've long suspected Starbucks mochachocalattes are chock full of death but like most people, didn’t think that hoovering one once in a while was a big whoop.

I was reading my Glamour mag in the tub as I’m wont to do when I came across this atrosh fact (see photo). One 32-ounce Dunkin Donuts Coffee Coolatta® with cream plus whipped cream is—wait for it—904 calories and 57 grams of fat. NINE HUNDRED FOUR FATASS, ARTERY-CLOGGING, LOVE-HANDLE-INDUCING CALORIES! There’s not even any booze in it! A company has to work hard to add that many calories to a cup. If you’re on a diet and counting calories, that’s 3/4ths of your day’s total caloric intake. I’m all for personal responsibility, but chucklehead companies like Dunkin Donuts and Starbucks are reprehensible for putting this gutbomb on the menu.

With a nod to Jeff Foxworthy, you might be drinking your doom if…

• there’s whipped cream on top of cream
• the cup could be used as a planter or a punch bowl
• if the beverage® has a registered symbol after its name
  
• the beverage’s name is nothing found in a dictionary
• the drink contains nothing found in nature

I know this isn’t exactly a laff riot, but neither is your health.

Bounce houses

Need I say more?

Okay. The love child of an inflatable snow globe and a padded cell, bouncy castles are blow-up germ factories for both sugar-fueled kids and status-seeking parents. It never ends well.

Seeing as I usually got a cardboard box or an old refrigerator to play with as a kid, I’m clearly resentful that all these little princes and princesses get to yuck it up and take jumping on the bed to a escalated, extravagant extreme in a PVC palace that can be seen from space.