Awards Time!

Everyone loves awards (moreso than Raymond), so I felt it my duty to hand a few out based on observations from my day yesterday. A little background: I got up, fed and bathed the kids and myself, dressed everyone, and off we went to the Natural Science Museum in Raleigh. It's a little bit of a hike, but not an altogether unpleasant one. Plus, it gets the kids to exercise as they run around from one exhibit to the other. Awesome, I know. Afterwards, we went to get some lunch, came home, cleaned the house some, and then watched those nefarious Tarheels upend my beloved Irish (and while the loss is suboptimal, it's one of those things that will help keep ND out of a BCS bowl that they don't belong in at the end of the year). After dinner and the game, I headed out to do a little writing and coffee enjoying, which is kind of becoming my Saturday evening plan-of-action. All caught up? Okay, good, let's proceed.

Fuckwit of the Day: The guy who came in with his family of six and a stroller to the sandwich shop yesterday at lunch time (12:30) and began to complain loudly that there wasn't anywhere for him and his brood to sit. He then proceeded to glower at anyone who had a vacant seat at their table, which would include me (the two kids and I sat at a four-seat table, rather than a two-seat table because, you know, there are three of us). Other four seat tables were taken up by a family of four, a family of five, two ladies with a young child and two more babies, a dad, his dad, and their 10-year-old boy who were probably heading to the ND/UNC game, and an older couple out with what appeared to be their son and daughter-in-law. And they were all eating and conversing as people will do over their lunch. Yet Fuckwit decides to storm around and stare at people, maliciously willing them to either shove sandwiches down their gullet whole like snake people, or shooting them the stinkeye in order to get them to pick up their lunches and simply leave. I mean, Christ, we were inconveniencing him, after all.
Douchebag Collective of the Day: I went to my usual haunt for coffe-swilling and writing--the Barnes & Noble cafe in Brier Creek, if you must know--and set up shop with the hopes of finishing the chapter I had been working on previously. Instead, these three...shitwads...came shuffling up to the table immediately beside mine (it was a touch busy and crowded) and proceeded to violate my space both physically and orally. Fem-shitwad was thrust up against my table while Shit-he-wad sat across from her and Master Shitwad sat at the apex of their unholy triangle of douchery. Fem-shitwad proceeded to tell everyone (in the entire store) how fast she likes to drive. "I made it from St. Petersburg to Tampa, which is supposed to be a six hour drive, in two and a half hours. I don't care if my spedometer touches 120. I just go." Shit-he-wad told the tale of how he must drive everywhere because he gets "carsick" and he's "terrified to fly". Shit-he-wad continued on, telling of how he wished he could remember every job he ever worked, but it was like, over thirty, so there's no way he could remember. The guy kind of reminded me of a very sad, very pathetic David Wooderson from Daze and Confused. He also has a best friend who is driving in from Utah because his best friend just got a new car, so they (the best friend and his apparent girlfriend, which very well could have been a Larsian type companion) decided a 2500-mile ride would break it in. Shit-he-wad then decided that he would read back a text conversation that "Lars" sent him, which was painfully predictable and ended with "I love that guy!"

This is the point where Master Shitwad took his chance to shine. At about this point, Master Shitwad started dropping every gay reference he could think of. Like, not trying to be insulting, but trying to be...funny?...I guess...in a really pathetic sort of way. Like, he referred to "Lars" as being Shit-he-wad's Brokeback Buddy, and then steered the conversation toward Clay Aiken and how he had come out but they should shove him back in, because we don't want him. I don't know if the guy was gay, or playfully gay, or just a retard. Or a little of all three. It was very...dare I say...queer.

After about forty-five minutes of this, I got up and walked around the store, looking for anything to distract me from this madness. After burning 10 minutes, I came back to find them still Douchebagging the place up. I sat down and tried to write some more, but Master Shitwad and Fem-shitwad were braying with laughter while shit-he-wad sniggered in a most servile fashion. Having enough, I gathered up my writing implements and headed toward the door. The sounds of their braying laughter faded--thankfully--as the door shut. For a few moments, I sat in my car, staring in at the blaze orange mountain that was Master Shitwad, relishing in the fact that I'm not a complete social retard.

Vas Deferens of the Day: Ever read a really good book and, as you're dashing toward the ending, you find that someone had razored out the last two chapters? Wow, that would totally suck, right? Well, I'm playing this game called Rogue Galaxy, and I've gotten everything taken care of right up to the final boss, so I'm geeked to finish this thing up. I load it up on Friday night and I get through the first two waves of the final boss and then, as the third one is supposed to come out, the game stalls. After fifteen minutes, I reset, go through it again, and the game stalls again. I do this four separate times, each time taking the disk out and cleaning it. I discover a tiny scratch/crack in the disk and, frustrated, I call it quits and decide to try and fix it on Saturday. So, I head out to the store where I bought the game (used, because I don't cry tears of gold), who told me that they would not replace the game as it was more than two weeks since I bought it and I didn't have a receipt. So, I tired to trade it in for credit, and they wouldn't give me any credit, since I told them the game was broken. Wonder-fucking-ful. Also, they didn't have a replacement in the store. I visited two other stores, and neither had a copy, either. Fucking Christ. So, now I have a game saved for whenever I can find a copy of the disk that will play. Lesson learned: always check the condition of the disks before you make that final purchase at a used games parlor. Fuckwads.

So, there you have it, some awards from my weekend. As the world is a big place and populated with several people, I'm sure that this could become a bit of a recurring theme, so I won't even try to keep this at an annual thing.