Archive for October, 2010

You don't deserve her, Mike!

In 1987, this epidemic was ushered to the forefront of public conscience by Mike Todwell, the obnoxious, chauvinistic, and unfaithful boyfriend of Chris Parker, the darling protagonist of the 80′s classic, Adventures in Babysitting (portrayed by Bradley Whitford and Elizabeth Shue, respectively). For upon seeing Mike’s red Camaro with the ”SO COOL” license plate parked in its incriminating spot outside the restaurant, Chris abruptly realized that Mike was a paltry philanderer, forever cementing in our minds the nexus between cheesy vanity plates and major d-bags.

Stupid vanity plate enthusiasts typically fall into one of the following groups:

The Clever Rapscallion

1.  The Clever Rapscallion

OSI-IIT                8EE-OTCH
GR8-BOX            6TEE9

2.  The Non-Clever Rapscallion

IPOOPD           EFF-YOU

3.  The Quirky Academic

PEMDAS (pneumonic device for remembering Mathematics basic order of operations)
SOCATOA  (pneumonic for remembering how to find the Sine, Cosine and Tangent of an agle in a right triangle)
SPQR (acronym for Latin phrase, Senatus Populusque Romanus (“The Senate and People of Rome”))
3 PT 14 (Pi)
2xPIxR (mathematical formula for determining the circumference of a circle)

4.  The 80’s Hero


DIVO4LYF              BOY-GRG
ISHOTJR                 A-TEAM

5.  The Successful Macho Hard-Ass

TOP-GUN                  AZZ-KICKR

The Star Wars Geek

TUF-NUTS                 8-INCHR
HGE-BALS                 SGR-DADY

6.  The Star Wars Geek
LRD-VDR                 OBI-WAN
JEDI-MOM               SEE-3P0
R2DEE2                 H4N-SOLO


Now, you may be thinking to yourself, yes, of course the touter of such cheese-ballery is a boob, but isn’t this a victimless social faux pas? And well, perhaps to an extent it is.

But whenever I see some such butt-head cruising down the highway with a toothy grin and a goofy vanity plate, I think to myself: “Ya know. At some point, there was some inked-up, hardened criminal in some violent, scary prison, just trying to pay his debt to society, who saddled up to his work bench one morning, checked his job sheet, bemoaned a loathsome sigh, and began fashioning a piece of aluminum to read “WHO-FRTD.”



*Thanks to my sister, Lizzy Foley, for coming up with the idea for this one.



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"Oh... Hey Steve."


I mean, did he ever really stand a chance?






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With the death of any relationship comes the inevitable post-mortem, wherein the breakup-friend dips into a funk and expects the inner-circle friends to convene and partake in painstaking doses of self-reflection, analysis, and of course, the ritual bashing of the Ex.

And once the breakup-friend starts shitting on the Ex, its open season. It’s go time. After months (or maybe years) of feigned enthusiasm and support for your friends relationship, you are finally free to unload your laundry list of beefs. Maybe he was just a huge asshole who treated her poorly, and made her stop hanging out with you, and never smiled in pictures which was not a damning quality on its own but nevertheless supported your theory that he was a miserable douche. Or maybe she was a manipulative bitch who habitually emasculated your friend, generally made everyone uncomfortable, and strangely didn’t seem to have any friends of her own, effectively making her general entertainment the sole responsibility of your friend.

And now that the spark of their pathetic flame has fizzled, you’re able to speak freely on these and other such qualms. So you do. And everyone agrees. And it feels awesome.

That is until a couple weeks later when, after both dumper and dumpee have suckled at the cold, scary teet of loneliness and desperation, you get the predictable text connoting the cliche-scenario – something to the effect of: “OMG!! GUESS WHAT?!? BRAD AND I TALKED AND WE’RE GETTING BACK TOGETHER!!!”

To which you then reply,
(if female to female): “Oh yayaya! So happy for you! Call me later and tell me about it. Looovesss Youuuuu!”; or
(if male to male):  “Nice kid. She’s hot.”

Meanwhile, you’re thinking:
Well that’s. Just. Great. Now, you obviously know how I really feel about your Ex. Or do you? Why are you once again buying my feigned enthusiasm and fake happiness for you? My true feelings have been made known. It’s now clear that it was all a ruse the first time around so that we wouldn’t have to deal with the awkwardness of my hating your chosen mate. Why are we pretending the post-mortem conversation never took place? Sweeping it under the rug? This is kind of awkward. I’m scared. And hungry. Oh well. You’ll probably drop off the face of the earth again anyways now that you two are back together and all. That was one of the reasons I hated your Ex in the first place.

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You’re still in the middle lane and the exit’s close. You turn on your blinker and slow down a bit to wait for an opening. A window of opportunity presents itself. And then, seeing that you’ve found an escape valve, some pathetic and bitter dweeb decides to punch his accelerator and zoom up alongside you to spitefully close your window of opportunity and prevent you from ending up in front of him.

When this happens to you, all you can really do is shake your head and say “man, what a worm.” How completely powerless and inadequate must one be in his professional and/or personal life to feel so compelled to capture such a meaningless and obnoxious victory. What purpose did it serve him to not be gracious, but to instead stick it to someone he’ll never see again from the cowardly sanctum of his moving car?

Well, whatever. Don’t worry about me, pal. I’ll get to the exit. I’ll be fine. But you’re obviously a very bitter and petty human being. And I’m sure you have your reasons. So kudos on thwarting my lane-change. Have fun getting back to whatever life you’re leading outside of your car – I’m sure you can’t wait to get there!

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That BBQ looks really fun. I should go over there and join them. But I'm a realist. So I know they wouldn't like me.


“Would I love to date Babs? Sure. But I’m a realist! So I’m just gonna try to get back with my ex.”

“Well, when I was in my twenties, my dream was to become a writer. But, ya know, I’m a realist! So I took a job at my dad’s car dealership, and never looked back.”

“Guys, guys, guys – I want the Sox to win the ALCS as much an anyone. But I’m a realist! They’re down 3-0 in the series and it’s the Yankees. So let’s just flip it over to Conan O’Brien, wake up tomorrow, and focus on the PATS.”



These self-defeating bastards literally make me sick. Not only because they are paralyzed by their own fear of failure, but because they try to suck everybody else into their sucky suck-pit by equating their pessimistic outlook with reality. Implicitly, therefore, anybody who takes a risk, has a little faith, or just generally exudes optimism is failing to accept “reality.” Because in the “real” world, nothing ever works out. So why even try?

By definition, a “realist” is a person who tends to view or represents things as they really are. Thus, people who’s perception of reality is so dramatically skewed by their own fears and insecurities aren’t realists. They’re just dinks. So don’t ever let them take the wind out of your sails.

I sure wish I could say these people don’t suck. But I can’t. I’m a realist.

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Whattup Guuurrrlll?

The creeper-game-wall-post is always the same:

“Yo whattup girl. Lookin’ good these days. We should chill. Get at me.”


If that’s the best you can do, take it over to Craigslist. Get that shit off my newsfeed. You suck.

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Geraldo Rivera: Frequent Offender and Pretentious Pwerto Rican. Also rumored to have invented the "hard-at-work reporter" pose.

“I chose to live in New Meh-hee-co because of the strong cultural influences I experienced in my twenties when I traveled and lived abroad. I lived in Cooba, Tee-hwana, Rio di Hinero, Chee-lay, Arhentina, Ecuathor, Pwerto Rico, Onduras… Oh hey, that reminds me, we need to start planning for thinco de mayo – only a month away!”

“Oh the party was fantastic. And you should have seen the spread! Fried moot-za-rell, chicken cordon bluhh, papas free-tas, sauteed fwah-grah, hoomus dip, quezadeee-yah with hala-pain-yos and pie-yay-ya. Frankly, I wish I’d eaten more of it. Especially since I got so rocked off that Tequee-ya!”

People who do this justify their behavior by insisting they use the “correct” pronunciation. And yeah, they’re probably right. But at a certain point, you have to ask yourself, ‘what good is being correct if it makes me look like a complete jackass?’
*Thanks to Oded Carmi for the assistance.

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