Guys who wear sunglasses on their forehead

If you' haven't figured it out by now, I'm pretty fucking picky.

I make no apologies.

Admittedly, this may have something to do with the fact that I'm single, but I stand by my gripes.

And one said gripe is dudes who wear their sunglasses on their forehead. Not the top of their head, mind you, but just above their eyebrows. 

When I see this optical billboard advertising a blue-collar, blue-blocking frat boy, I can't see straight. I should turn a blind eye to such a small thing, but it drives me bananas. 

Are you too lazy to hinge your shades to the top of your head? Have you converted your Cro-Magnon brow ridge into a portable ledge for your Ray-Bans? Are you trying to shield your five-fingered forehead or receding hairline from harmful rays?

My only hope is that you wind up with an awesome tan line.

Equally as bad: Oakleys hanging off the nape of your neck.

(photo: marxists.org)

Childhood nicknames

My brothers used to call me Heifer Head, usually right before they thumped me in the head or beat me at canasta or cribbage. My 7-year-old admonition of "Words can hurt more than fists" didn't get me anywhere.

It gets better. Yeah, it gets better, primarily because we don’t live under the same roof as our siblings forever.

What nickname haunted your childhood nightmares? What low-forehead playground Monchhichi did you want to beat with your pogo stick?

Kristen Stewart’s posture

You’re gorgeous, young, and rich. You’re part of the biggest movie franchise around, save maybe Harry Potter. You have a vampire AND a werewolf fighting over you, for chrissakes. Life, unlike the Volturi, doesn’t suck.

Own it.

Stand up straight.

Every time I see you at an schmancy event, hunched over and rocking back and forth like a rhesus monkey who misses its mom, all I think is “Gollum in lipgloss.”

You’re all moody and shit, equating paparazzi photos of you to images of someone being raped. Newsflash, Bella, you don’t get to be emo in Proenza Schouler. You shouldn’t be pissy while getting oxygen facials, being adored by the world's 15 year olds, and macking on R-Patz.

Take some calcium, hit a Pilates Reformer class, and stop looking like you’re itching to ring the bells of Notre Dame at twilight.

(photo: celebrity-mania.com)

Irish pubs on St. Patrick’s Day

I love me some shepherd’s pie and a pint most days of the year. But when March 17 rolls around, I avoid green and McPubs like the plague. Arse clowns in the cups assume fake brogues and dance around like leprechauns who’ve finally found their pot o’ gold. And mo chuisle, it's "Erin Go Bragh," not Erin go braless.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you’re not even Irish, for feck’s sake!

Take off the dumbass green bowler—it’s your unlucky charm today, Danny Boy—so I can beat you about the ears with a shillelagh. Better yet, here’s a pipin’ hot pot of colcannon. If you want to be Irish, you’ll need to suffer a little.

(photo: blogs.pitch.com/fatcity)

Watching all the movie credits

The movie’s over. I know this because I hear the strains of some shitbox Celine song and I see credits rolling.

This is my cue to vamanos. I saw Scream 2. The theater’s still dark. I could die if I stay in my seat popping Milk Duds. Anyway, I have to hit the head. It was a 90-minute movie, after all.

There’s just one problem. Peen Shalit next to me is gazing at the screen as though it’s the beginning of Star Wars or a Magic Eye image.

Excuse me, sir, did you work on the film? Are you in the business? Did you happen to be in Utah during Sundance last year? Is Jeremy Piven your second cousin? Do you think there’s a clue to an episode of Lost embedded somewhere between the grip and best boy credits? Do you sleep with your eyes open? No? Then why are you still sitting there? You’re blocking my passage and the ushers need to clean up the remnants of your jumbo combo snack box before the next screening.

Sure, if outtakes or additional footage have been added to the credits, hang out. I'm right there with you. I don't want to miss Will Ferrell ad libbing hilarity, either. But that's not usually the case. If you have to watch the credits because you’re avoiding going home to an empty or angry house or because you’re an aficionado who says “film” instead of “movie” and takes your two-week vacation during your city’s film festival, at least have the decency to sit in the middle of a row so I don’t have to play impromptu aisle Twister. Consider doing what any self-respecting film buff does: study IMDB when you get home.

If I have to give you one more lap dance as I’m leaving The Squeakquel, I’m going to pack a boom mic in my bag along with my contraband snacks and go Darth Maul on you.

(photo: hereinmyhead.wordpress.com)

Erotic asphyxiation

I don’t know about you, but I want to be conscious when something feels gasp-out-loud good. Like many mountain climbers, I don’t want to be oxygen-deprived during life's seminal moments. I saw Rising Sun and took it as a cautionary tale. Don’t have sex on the boardroom table during an office party (that’s what supply closets are for, natch) and don’t allow yourself to be choked during the act. (And don't ever question Sean Connery when he's sporting a beard, but that's another story.)

Even if you don’t die, you could lose consciousness and then be susceptible to death or other indignities. Do you really want to go out as Gasper the Friendly Ghost or a Darwin Award nominee? While they left behind impressive bodies of work, the late David Carradine and Michael Hutchence will always have the taint of autoerotic asphyxiation hanging over their heads.

Honestly, isn’t a cock ring or a playful slap-and-tickle enough? If you keep experimenting with ropes, shoelaces, and such, I’m going to have to punch you in the neck. I can help you lose consciousness, and it will be anything but erotic.

(photo: mortonbranding.com.au/)

Kiddie pageants

I don’t know which is worse: the pageants, the parents, or the glassy-eyed kids. Wait, yes I do: it’s the parents.

How any parent can dye or highlight their little girl’s naturally preternatural locks boggles the mind. Women are forever trying to get an eight-year-old’s natural highlights and momthras are frying everything good and holy from these tiny heads. Momsters brush mascara onto baby lashes and glop up little rosebud lips with lip gloss, transforming their little rays of sunshine into Stepford toddlers. These kids can’t read Vogue yet, but they’re more high maintenance than Anna Wintour. I bet they could even teach me how to finally apply liquid eyeliner properly…

The pageants themselves are beyond low budget. They are usually held on a rickety stage with a sad backdrop that looks like it was made with a glue gun, glitter, and an asswagon of prayer. Stage mommies sit in the audience, miming their kid’s “talent” routine, while the little girl preens, dances, smiles, and jazz hands her way through a treacly patriotic number.

The ragtag judges eat this shit up. I want to beat this shit up. I want to deprogram the little spray-tanned ventriloquist dummies by herding them into a lil’ miss protection program. Here, in a home with no television or tiaras, their hair will return to a color in the neighborhood of what Mother Nature intended. They will play with crayons, not lip pencils, and draw outside the lines. They will sing along to Baby Einstein, rather than “(Hit Me) Baby One More Time.” The only Barbies in the house will be the ones manufactured by Mattel, not a mom from hell. And the mommies dearest, the ones who continue to maintain that they are just helping their daughters realize their dreams, will be beaten with a sack of those very same Barbie dolls while being forced to sing Aqua's "Barbie Girl" in a leotard. Being plastic isn't always fantastic.

(photo: berkshirefinearts.com)

Sunbrellas

When last I checked, umbrellas were supposed to be pulled out in the rain. And in Seattle, you never pull them out. We can spot a tourist a mile away…usually because of the giant golf umbrella protecting a bob from the gentle mist of the Northwest.

Umbrellas, in other words, are for wuss wagons (and the Wicked Witch of the West, natch).

So how much farther down the pansy-ass food chain do you fall when you pull out an umbrella on a sunny day? (FYI: This is a rhetorical question.)

You may not be aware of this but there’s this new invention. It is sort of an umbrella that fits on your head. It even frees up your hands! It’s called—wait for it—a hat. Genius, don’t you think? And if you miss your dumbershoot, you can get one of these.

Now I understand if you have a sun condition like those pale kids in The Others but if you’re a hipster in a vintage dress and a paper parasol, not only are you blocking my view of a beautiful day, you’re chapping my already-chafed thighs. I could lose an eye on a rainy day. I really don’t want to get poked by a spoke on a cloudless one. The eyepatch will leave a tan line.

(photo: amandalithuania2009.wordpress.com/category/video/)

Violence

I kicked Ponell Williams in the head in second grade because he tripped me when I was rounding third. I also got into a locker-room scuffle after gym class in seventh grade. I think some girl was disrespecting me during 4-square. Other than that, my hands are clean.

Sure, I verbally smack shit right and left and it gives me more pleasure than you know. It’s a great release for my anger, be it a passing peeve or deep-seeded fury.

What I’m not down with is physical violence. I try to keep this blog light but I have to tell you, I wanted to smack Rhianna upside her head after she entertained thoughts of returning to a guy who tenderized her face. And yesterday, I heard that Perez Hilton, the reigning king of the verbal shit-sling, got clocked by the Black-Eyed Peas’ manager. He allegedly got into it with will.i.am and the next thing you know, boom, boom, pow! A black eye and a call to the po po. Will, I am not impressed.

I am reminded of something that a former co-worker told me: “Sometimes, words can hurt more than fists.” I know what you’re saying, brother, but tell that to a woman who is holding her face in her hands after being hit in the face with a baseball bat or a recumbent cyclist who’s been sideswiped by a red-faced (and possibly redneck) driver. Sometimes, Perez Hilton or I am going to say something that somebody will take offense to. That's fine. Talk back; we can take it and we'll get your point loud and clear.

Raise your voice, not your fist, or I’m coming for you. yes.i.am.

(photo: this is Perez Hilton with a fake black eye; haven't been able to find one of the real shiner; buzzworthy.mtv.com)