A Lay Person’s Guide to Not Getting a Loogie in Your Burger

It’s my own personal belief that everyone should have to spend three months working in the food and beverage industry as a waiter or waitress. That’s right – every man, every woman. Three months. At the very least. No matter what your social or financial status, it should be a legal requirement. You know how some countries require their citizens to spend a year in the military? Well sort of like that – only we’re talking knives and forks instead of assault rifles and grenades. “Why such a ludicrous idea?” some of you may ask. I’ll tell you why. Not everyone, but a certain segment of the population act like complete, total and utter jackasses when dealing with serving staff at restaurants. Why is this? Well, some people have absolutely no idea what it takes to be a server and more importantly, to be blunt, are just assholes. I don’t know why. They just are. I think there must be an asshole gene that scientists haven’t discovered yet. I’m pretty sure the TLC executive who keeps giving the green light to Kate Gosselin shows and Toddlers and Tiaras has the gene. Dick Cheney is the poster boy for the gene. And the guy in the restaurant losing his mind at the scared and mortified minimum wage earning waitress because he asked for “a medium rare steak, not medium!!!!!” definitely has the gene. It’s just a steak dude. We can cook you a new one. With this guy’s heavy consumption of red meat and obvious through-the-roof blood pressure, he’s headed for an early grave anyway. Problem solved.

It’s really not difficult to be civil with the person who brings you your meal and takes care of your needs during your dining experience. But you’d never know it the way some people carry on. Don’t get me wrong, there are loads of people working in the restaurant business who shouldn't be. Some of them shouldn’t be allowed to handle sharp objects or procreate let alone serve food. Look, if the waiter comes out and his glass eye has fallen into your bowl of French onion soup; by all means unleash a profanity laced tirade towards the boob. But if the soup is a wee bit cold or possibly a little unflavourful – let’s not launch into a hysterical fit of anger that would make Bill O’Reilly blush. I’m completely aware of certain employees that don’t live up to the waiter or waitress expectation. But that can be said for any profession. What do you call the guy who graduated at the bottom of his class in medical school? Doctor. Doesn’t mean he’s a good one. I once had a doctor try to tell me I had mono even though I was lacking every single symptom of the ailment except an infected throat. I walked into his office one day and told him I had a throat infection. I was hoping to get some of that tasty banana flavored medicine to make it go away. End of story. But he immediately said I had mono and then proceeded to check me for the symptoms. Swollen glands? Negative. Fatigue? None. Swollen spleen? Nope. Fever? Haven’t had one in 7 years. “Well, clearly Mr. MacDougall, you have mono”. Huh? So the quack swabs my throat and sends me home with no tasty banana medicine. Tests come back the next day. Drum roll please...NOT MONO. Well dip me in mustard and call me hot dog! How about that? No mono! Who would have guessed it? In all fairness I was more annoyed about not getting the tasty banana medicine than his misdiagnosis.

So as I was saying, why do people treat servers so poorly and not those that work in other professions? How often do you see people acting like condescending jerks toward their accountant? “Jeez, do you think you could have carried the one any slower? How difficult is it to do a little long division huh??? I wanted these files stapled! Not paper clipped!!! Stapled!!! Man you’re stupid!” Doubtful. Any accountants out there who have been berated and belittled like this, by all means prove me wrong here.

I was a bartender for a number of years and I did my share of food service. As a bartender though, my main duty was to pour drinks, crack beer and listen to all the servers complain about the douchebags they had to wait on. I really should have been paid for psychiatric duties as much as bartending. Some of these gals were truly traumatized. It’s a tough industry. A veteran server once said to me, “You know this is one of the few jobs in the world where you have to be friendly and act nice to people you would never, ever invite into your home”. Point taken. There’s nothing quite like waiting hand and foot on a knucklehead who insists on telling off colour jokes and talking to you about the breast sizes of all the female servers. Classy. I’ve put my fair share of jerk customers in their place out of pure necessity. But sometimes, you bend over and take it. Why? Tips. Servers live on tips. Without them, they end up sleeping in a dumpster behind Tim Horton’s. Proximity to fresh coffee aside, those aren’t very desirable digs. So you suck it up, deal with the meathead and pocket the generous 2 dollars he left you on the table.

Now for those of you who aren’t plain old assholes and are merely annoying beyond all belief when dealing with servers and bartenders, here are your commandments. Read them and take heed.

Thou shalt not stand idly by and watch a bartender make an extremely complicated drink for one customer, and then watch said bartender put away each and every bottle and all other ingredients before ordering that exact same drink yourself, lest a swarm of locusts plague your farmlands.

Thou shalt not immediately tell a server who comes back to the table with a full tray of drinks that they have forgotten your drink when it is painfully obvious there simply wasn’t enough room on the tray to fit all drinks that were ordered in one trip, lest your cows give sour milk and bull become impotent.

Thou shalt not enter a restaurant five minutes before closing time and order a well done 12 ounce steak, lest the cloven hoofed demon steal your soul.

Thou shalt not sit and linger at a table for undue amounts of time when it is clear the overworked and underpaid serving staff is cleaning up for the day and wants to go home, lest your rooster cease to crow at the break of day and make you late for work.

Thou shalt not let the worst tipper at the table pick up the bill lest yee be stricken with the palsy.

Thou shalt not get pissy with the server when thy food is not cooked properly or tastes bad as thou shalt immediately remember that the server did NOT cook the food, but simply delivered it, lest your oxen turn gay.

Thou shalt heed the server’s warning that a certain dish is very spicy and not order it anyway only to send it back because it is “too spicy”, lest yee lose the hair on your head and gain fat in your abdomen.

Thou shalt not ask where your food is five minutes after ordering it when the restaurant is packed to the rafters with an hour long wait time at the door, lest your Blackberry get a virus and Facebook account be hacked.

Thou shalt tip if the service was at all decent. Lest nothing. Just friggin tip ya cheap bastard!

So those are just a few pointers my friends. Following these rules will ensure that your drink remains free of other’s saliva and that your French fries will never be anywhere near the toilet in the staff bathroom before they reach your table. Don’t forget, you don’t know what happens back in that kitchen. An angry server can be a vengeful server. One of them could have mono and spitefully drink from your glass. Then you’d get mono. Just don’t go to my old doctor to get it diagnosed, lest yee spend a fortune on needless medical bills. Amen.

When Life Hands You Lemons, Hand Them Back

Hello. My name is Stephen MacDougall. Call me Steve. I’m 33 years old and I lost my job today. I became a statistic. I’m unemployed! I’m a victim of the recession – or so they tell me. I think I handled the news well though. I mean, I didn’t go lay into them with a barrage of f-bombs or threats of physical violence or pull any kind of "disgruntled former employee" thing. Although I suppose I would first have to be gruntled in order to become disgruntled…and I don’t know what gruntled means. Anywho, I’ve sort of summed up today’s events into one simple, dignified, and restrained response: gigantic, steaming pile of urine-soaked douechbaggery with an arrogant corporate bullshit kick to the sack. But I’m not bitter. Heavens no! Bitterness gets you nowhere. You always hear about bitter people in the biographies of failed inventors or unappreciated sculptors: “He died bitter and alone at the age of 52”. You know the story. I for one, am not going to die bitter and alone. I’ll die the other way people die in biographies of failed inventors or unappreciated sculptors: drunk and destitute! I mean, I can’t very well kick-off in the lap of luxury without a job now can I? What fun would that be? Drunk and destitute it is!

However, that idea is not really turning my crank either. No, in fact that’s the worst idea I’ve had in a dog’s age. Don’t mind me. It’s just all the animalistic rage I’m feeling from being axed by a poorly run company that cut so far back during the good times, there was nothing left to cut during the bad times. So please forgive me. I’m just suffering through a Mel Gibson-esqe drunken rage…well minus the drunkenness and bigotry. Nope, just plain old rage for yours truly. I’m a ragetarian. But I’m not really feeling rage right now either. I woke up this morning, and will again tomorrow with a roof over my head. That’s more than I can say for many people. Although, there is a gaping hole in my bedroom ceiling right now. Yeah, where all that water was pouring in from the day before. Yep, a plumber came over and tore a hole in my ceiling to find the source of the leak. He didn’t find it. So now I just have a gaping hole in my ceiling until the water comes pouring in again. It’s almost like a game. It’s called: "wait for water to come gushing into your room when you’re not home so that it ruins your bed and makes your house smell funny". This game hasn’t really caught on very well, say, the way soccer has. Did I mention that the plumber managed to knock my mirror off the wall and shatter it into a thousand pieces? No? Well, he did. Now is that seven years of bad luck for me or for him? Or do we get three and a half years each? I’m going to need to get sources on this. Either way someone is going to suffer through a lot of canker sores and constipation over the next few years.

No, I’m going to take all that rage and anger and bitterness and channel it into something better. Well…just as soon as I reconcile the fact that someone who has written for national television and worked as a reporter and morning show radio host is considering applying for a job at Tim Horton’s because the economy hasn’t quite recovered the way about 8.4 percent of the Canadian population wished it had. I’ve been here before though. Pounding the pavement in Toronto. Two university degrees in hand. An IQ that the experts tell me, “borders on gifted”. Stopping in front of Booster Juice on Bloor Street West with my resume, wondering if I was ready to swallow a dose of pride so large I’d need a Carnie Wilson-sized liposuction procedure to remove it when all was said and done. I didn’t apply for a job at Booster Juice that day. I held my head high and went home to a meal of Kraft Dinner and hot dogs…again. I found work a couple weeks later. At a store that sells sunglasses. It’s two and a half months of my life that I’m trying to repress. I could very well be developing multiple personality disorder from all the repressing I’ve been doing. I think I suffered from post traumatic stress disorder after working there as well. Our manager made us listen to a dance/hip hop station while we worked. To this very day I get violently ill when Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie comes on the radio. Nothing against Shakira. She shakes her mojo like nobody’s damn business. No, it's just that it was a hit song at the time and it conjures up terrible memories for me. Selling sunglasses that cost more than I made in a week to bored yet wealthy housewives, cocky stock brokers, and spoiled rich kids who would ask if I had any glasses where you could “really see the Chanel logo”. And don’t get me started on my co-workers. The manger that had been selling sun glasses at that very location for like 18 years…straight, and would spend most of the day on the phone whining to her other manager buddies about how head office was screwing her over. Then there was the really cute girl who could fulfill her sales target by lunchtime simply by showing up to work and blinking. Then the initially sweet girl who ruthlessly fought for her one percent commission...and tried to steal everyone else’s while she was it. She'd come in full of cheer and vigor but as soon as a customer came in she'd go through some sort of Michael Jackson Thriller video transformation into a blood-thirsty werewolf. It was bizarre. She'd grow fangs and claws and the room would fill with mist and everything. Then there was overtly flamboyant young guy who really didn’t want to like me at first, but eventually gave in when he realized I wasn’t some east coast homophobe. And then our brilliant assistant manager who made her business your business…no matter what the subject matter. Yes, this is the same girl who loudly and with great detail, told me about some kind of painful rupturing cyst that she once had on the crack of her butt. Did I mention she loudly and with great detail told me this story while surrounded by dozens and dozens of other rush hour commuters on a subway car? This is not the kind of information most doctors want to hear let alone casual acquaintances. In fact, I'm sure this is the kind of medical case that doctors pawn off on to their interns because they don’t want to deal with anything that yucky themselves. I certainly didn’t need to hear this information, and the poor bastards stuck standing next to this girl on the subway certainly didn’t need the juicy details either. All those people crushed in there together like sardines. Think of the poor guy who was pushed up next to this girl’s butt. He probably spent his entire ride home wondering if that cyst was oozing anything onto his new slacks. Was it contagious?

The bottom line is: I survived the sunglasses store. I’ve survived unemployment before. I’ve swallowed my pride. And even though it tasted worse than anything I’ve ever eaten at Arby’s, I came through it. I cleaned out rental cars for seven bucks an hour. I bussed tables and scraped off disgusting dinner plates for less money than that. And after all of it: I am who I am. It’s part of me. I think I’m a good guy. Smart. Funny. Well-liked. Handsome on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and every second Pancake Day. My friends and family love me. I’m quality. I’m not one of those people you can order over the phone like a Snuggie or a Slap Chop. No, you have to go into a really expensive boutique to order up someone like me. I guess a good kick in the pills from life every now and then reminds you of who you are. Life says, “Hey! Jackass! Don’t get too comfortable. There’s more for you to do! Now get moving!” To which I reply, “Bite me, Life! You can give this shit up any time now! You seriously have the worst timing! You're like a case of the runs on a first date! Remember the time I was about to play my very first gig ever with my band and you blew up my amplifier 10 minutes before show time? And remember the time I got a job bartending for the summer and you gave me a sprained ankle so I couldn’t work for three weeks and I went broke? And what about all the times I ever stepped in dog shit? Enough is enough, Life! Give it up!” And Life replies, “Make me”. So that’s what you have to do. When life hands you lemons – grab a salt shaker and do a shot of tequila. Or if you're a non-drinker, hand those lemons back.

Anyway, I’m trying to keep my head up. Trying to make my way through this. I know I will. I always do. I have people in my life who help me along the way. I’m lucky that way. Positive thinking, great friends and family, confidence and humor. Those will be my crutches – my shoulders to lean on. For all of those things, I am truly thankful. And to my boss who decided to lay me off, I would never tell you to kiss my ass. I’m above that. But feel free to kiss the ass of my old assistant manager at the sunglasses store.

My Life Sucks Worse Than Yours

Everyone has bad days. Sometimes we even have bad weeks…or bad months. I’ve had my share. There was this one day in grade two when I was beaten up by three bullies behind the school (this was a regular occurrence for me in grade two) and later that night proceeded to fall down my basement stairs while eating a sugar cookie. There’s nothing quite like landing at the bottom of a stair case covered in half-chewed sugar cookie. Crying with a mouthful of sugar cookie is more difficult than it sounds. Needless to say that was a bad day. I went on a dateless streak from 1993 to about 1995. That’s a bad couple years. Look at the Toronto Maple Leafs. They haven’t won the Stanley Cup since 1967! That’s practically a bad half century! So you can see that streaks of bad luck can run for any length of time. It happens. It’s part of life. Life goes on. Some people however, seem to need to constantly remind you that they are having a bad day/month/year/life. And no matter what is happening in their life, it’s got to be worse than what’s happening in yours, and boy oh boy are you going to hear about it you lucky duck!

Picture the following conversation. I’m going to use a fictional person named Frank. You may substitute Frank’s name for the name of an annoying acquaintance of yours.

Me: Hey Frank.

Frank: Hey Steve. How’s it going?

Me: Oh not too bad. Been working a lot though. I’m freakin’ tired.

Frank: Huh. You think you’re tired? I worked 70 hours last week and I had a COLD!

Let me explain something to you Frank, you non-listening, insinuating-crap-that-I-never-said dipstick. I never said that you weren’t tired. I said that I was tired. Try to follow along with the conversation pal. It will make your life infinitely easier. I don’t ever recall saying, “Holy crap I’m tired Frank. I’m far more tired than you could ever be. In fact, if there were an Oscar for tired people, I’d win. And then I’d make a blubbering, 15 minute long acceptance speech that would make Halle Berry’s Oscar speech look like a picture of grace and composure. Oh and you wouldn’t even be nominated you wide awake jackass. Jeez Frank, stop even trying to be as tired as me. You’re like Tired-Lite.”

Everyone knows a Frank. They can be spotted in the wild by their familiar, repetitive and incredulous tone. “You think you’re tired!? You think you’ve got it bad?! You think you’ve got a raging case of herpes?!” No matter what you are feeling, Frank will be feeling it far worse than you are. You could be telling a story about the worst flu you ever had or the worst drive home you ever had or your worst teacher or professor. No matter what you say, Frank will have had it worse and he’ll practically belittle you like the drill sergeant from Full Metal Jacket for not having it as bad as he did.

More often than not, a Frank’s life is not that bad. People who have truly crappy lives tend not to talk about them that much. I know a few people that have had a real rough go of things and they just don’t bring it up in conversation. A Frank on the other hand wouldn’t know a truly bad day if it bit him in the rear end so hard he needed a tetanus shot.

I suppose for every yin there’s a yang. Remember the kid in school who always had the best of everything…or at least claimed too. Sure there were the spoiled rich kids who got everything they wanted, but do you remember the kid who wasn’t rich and still tried to claim that he had all those cool toys and gadgets anyway? Let’s call this kid – Patrick. You could be talking about your Nintendo and Patrick would pipe up about his SUPER Nintendo. Or you could be talking about your new BMX bike and Patrick would pipe up about his BMX bike that had monster truck tires and rocket launchers on the side. Or maybe you were even talking about your crazy Uncle Gus and Patrick would inevitably bring up his crazy Uncle Hulk Hogan. At the time you’d actually believe the stories Patrick and other kids like him were spewing out. Except for this one time in grade one when a girl in my class – a very eastern Canadian, very Caucasian girl - stood up and said she thought that Michael Jackson was her cousin. I mean it’s very possible that Joseph and/or Katherine Jackson spent time working on a fishing trawler in eastern Nova Scotia only to leave behind their relatives and move to Gary, Indiana and spawn the Jackson 5 plus Janet and the other one…but it seems somewhat unlikely. I’m getting off track here. I’m just saying that’s the one time I didn’t buy into one of those outrageous stories. But I digress.

I actually used to have fun with these “Patrick” kids when I got a little older. I would be talking about say, stereos, and mention that mine was 60 watts. Then Patrick would claim that his was 100 watts. Then I would say mine had a 6 CD changer. Patrick would say that his had a 10 CD changer. And back and forth – tit for tat. Then I’d start to mess with him. “Oh yeah? Well mine has a T-39, jumbo, super turbo grip flux capacitor.” Of course Patrick would reply that his had the very same except that it was a T-59 and had super DUPER turbo grip and was hand delivered to his house by Tony Hawk. Then we’d snicker and call him a wiener behind his back. Kids can be so cruel.

Anyway, what I’m getting at here is that these were the kids that needed to have a better toy than you, needed to have a better bike, needed to have a better video game. They needed to be better than you. Period. So what’s up with Frank? Why does he need to be worse than you? What kind of a weirdo perspective is that? I think both characteristics kind of suck but I can’t see wanting to be on the crappy end of the stick like Frank.

What’s the deal Frank? Are you looking for sympathy? Please don’t. It’s not an endearing feature. It’s right up there with picking your nose before you shake hands with someone or farting in church. Actually even to this day I can find the latter to be one of the most comical things on the planet. So scratch that Frank and please, toot on. But as I was saying, the sympathy thing - it’s not a good look. Life is not that bad. There’s plenty to be thankful for and to be happy about. Convincing me that your life stinks worse than mine is likely not going to prompt me to buy you a sympathy present. It will however, prompt me to avoid most verbal communication with you on a semi-regular basis. No one wants to be known as “a drag” Frank. So buck up. Smile. Stop complaining and let’s go make fun of Patrick. He just said he could fart louder than you in church. What a wiener.

If You’ve Got Nothing Useful to Say, Don’t Say Nothing at All

As I write this we’re about a month into the year 2010 – a full decade into the twenty first century. And at this point in the history of the world I think I can now confidently categorize the majority of the people on the planet into two groups: those who truly believe that others care what they have to say, and those who don’t own computers. I’m as guilty as the next person. Even as I write this – on a computer no less – I’m assuming that some of you out there must be hanging on every word I write. Me being a selfish bastard aside, the problem I speak of is running rampant – more rampant than say, celebrity DUI’s and Kate Gosselin’s hair.

The guilty parties can be found on your local Facebook page or on any website that allows readers to post comments. Just take a look. If you’ve been living anywhere but in a cave on Pluto – you’ll be aware of these groups of people. I say groups because these people fall into various categories. I’m sure there are all kinds of subcategories and branches of the same species much like Neanderthals – but I’ll just tackle the big ones for now. Group number 1…

“Facebook Bitchers”. This is a group of people who should probably be captured, tagged and set free in the wild so we can study how whiney little meatheads will react when removed from their natural habitat. All you Facebook users will know the type I mean. The ones who each and every day feel the need to let their 1200 or so “friends” know that they have yet again had a poor nights sleep, had a bad day at work or (if you can believe this, I ACTUALLY saw this one) got a “really bad yeast infection”. Sweet Jiminy Christmas! I’m as curious as the next guy. I mean I watch Discovery channel, but sometimes you just don’t need personal info – especially info about infections…involving yeast.

Hang on a minute here. I think I’ve found my first subcategory. Within the Facebook Bitcher category there is the “Uninformative Facebook Bitcher”. They’re the ones who are bitching but nobody knows what the hell for. They post really vague statuses purely to elicit sympathy. You know the kind – “Pamela is just so mad right now. Some people really have no manners!” Well that’s fantastic Pamela. It’s true, some people have no manners. Some people also have no idea what you are talking about. But hey, thanks for sharing and bringing the rest of us down while you’re at it. Why don’t you just invite us over to watch Steel Magnolias and Beaches then squirt lemon juice in our eyes? Then EVERYONE can be miserable! We’ll be one big, miserable, vague, bitching Facebook family.

Then of course there are the Facebook parents – or the fountains of too much information if you will. Now every parent should be proud of their child. I don’t have children but I’m extremely proud of my dog. It is without question better than every other dog on the planet in every respect. I don’t know if that’s true, but I believe it. And I think parents should believe in their children in a similar manner. Having said that, there needs to be a line drawn here people. New mothers - you get a free pass for about 6 months or so. Post whatever the hell you want and as many pictures as you want. Congrats! Hope the hormones come back into check soon. The rest of you need to chill out. We, the people on the receiving end of your endless photo parades and relentless status updates on every event in your children’s life from blinking their eyes to ill-timed vomiting incidents, can only handle so much. We will never write back and say, “You know what Rita? Your children really are better than mine. And not just mine. Better than all children of the world! By all means keep me updated on when little Herman’s next Cub Scout meeting is. I really thought that 700 pictures of the little Herm-meister playing Xbox with icing on his face were plenty – but not anymore. Let’s fill another 600,000-700,000 megabytes with images of little ole’ Herman. In fact, let’s see if we can get his picture placed next to the phrase “freaking adorable” in the dictionary. I’ll start the letter writing campaign!” In reality it’s more likely that I’m crafting the following letter in my head:

Dear person I haven’t seen in a decade or more,

I’m so ferociously happy that you are proud of your children. It truly shows that you’re a good, caring parent. Lord knows we need more people with your type of parental credentials. Having said that, I can’t possibly see why you feel the need to tell me and the 700 other Facebook friends who have never met your spouse and never even knew you had children, that your 6 year old won his hockey game today. I mean, that information is not even useful in my fantasy hockey pool. At least tack on a tip for who you think I should start in nets this week. At the very, very least say something that might possibly be somewhat relevant to more than 0.00063 percent of the population.

“You cranky, cynical bastard!” some of you may think. Perhaps. But come on! I know some of you out there feel the bile pushed to the tip of your throat when you read a Facebook status that says something like, “Jennifer is proud of Tyler on his trip to the dentist” or “Wanda just bought a new duvet cover”. As riveting as both these pieces of information are…what is the person thinking? Would they honestly care if I told them that I thought a real solid bowel movement was coming on or that I planned to fold the laundry after I waxed the car?

Let’s not forget the A.D.D. Facebooker. These are the folks who believe their lives to be so interesting that they feel the need to let the rest of the world know what they are doing every 7 to 8 minutes. Brian is washing his hair. Brian is going for lunch. Brian is digesting. Brian is thinking about the digestive process after that tasty lunch. Brian is breathing oxygen. Hey Brian – get a freakin’ life! Stop writing crap on your Facebook and go do something productive. I suppose the exact same could be said about Tweeters. The whole idea of Twitter is so insanely self important, what else can I really say about it? Two million people reading that Ashton Kutcher had Bran Flakes this morning? No thanks.

Why in our twisted little heads do we believe that others could truly care about our mundane, every day activities? I suppose with blogs, and Facebook and Twitter everyone has been given their own voice - their own little corner of the “world wide web” to trumpet from their cyber soap box. Look, I’m all for it so long as what you have to say is more exciting than say, an episode of Mass for Shut Ins.

Don’t even get me started on the people who anonymously comment on internet news stories. I have actually sworn off reading comments on news stories of any kind. Continuing to do so was going to lead to a coronary or potentially heaving my computer monitor out the window - possibly both at the same time. These anonymous commenters are far more twisted than any Facebook Bitcher. No, this is a group of knuckle-dragging mouth breathers that deserves nothing more than to be a footnote in Darwin’s theory of evolution. After careful research, I know the following details about this group:

1) They manage to be experts on nothing and everything at the same time.

2) They are incapable of reading an entire article from start to finish – most likely because a single news article is far longer than the pop-up books they are used to reading.

3) They complain like it’s a cure for something. No matter what the article is about they will find a way to complain about it. A single news article could announce that cures had been discovered for cancer, heart disease, MS, hunger and jock itch and these bozos would still rain on the parade. I once saw people complain about a new holiday! Honest to God – a freaking day off!!!

4) Their capacity for compassion is somewhat akin to that of Joseph Stalin.

5) Their spelling and grammar is, more often than not, completely atrocious.

6) They basically suck.

There was a story on the local newspaper’s website about the premier and his wife giving birth to their first child. The anonymous geniuses – and there were several of them – decided to post that, “their neighbour had recently given birth and THAT wasn’t reported in the paper, so why should the premier’s baby get news coverage”. Apparently the fact that their neighbour is NOT the leader of province or a public figure in any way, shape or form was completely lost on them. I would say most things are lost on these people – logic, common sense and life skills of any kind for example.

Oh boy. I think this is leading me to yet another subcategory - the people who comment on a news story about a particular person or a band or pop star of some kind. You know the ones who take the time to read an article about, Coldplay for example, and then proceed to comment that “Coldplay sucks”. What’s that all about? You dislike Coldplay, yet you not only take the time to read an entire article about the band, but you then take even more time to come up with something as brilliant as “Coldplay sucks”. Really? We can safely call this group the “Putz” category. ‘Nuff said.

So the Facebookers that I picked on earlier, most of you will remain completely oblivious to the fact that you fall into one of the aforementioned categories. That’s not surprising. Go back to posting photos of your new toaster and telling us what time you’re planning to take your nap. And for you anonymous commenters who are probably seething with rage as you read this very paragraph, print out the following section of this page and comment ‘til your heart’s content.

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

Tell me I’m stupid. Tell me I’m not funny. Tell me that somehow I must be working for the government or big oil. And most of all, point out what an idiot I am for voicing my opinion about people who are constantly voicing their opinions. The irony is lost on me.

So please, by all means, point it out and do so with such sub-par spelling and grammar that I might believe the comment was written by a partially trained aardvark. Write those all down and then remember the words of the great Steve Martin in the film Planes, Trains and Automobiles, “Have a point! It makes it so much more interesting for the listener!” Well said Mr. Martin. Well said.