Nail-trimmers in public

Don't be fooled into thinking that the lengthy delay between posts meant there was no one worthy of sacrifice. Apologies to all...


There are few things that require urgent and immediate attention while in public. Most things can wait until a more appropriate time. The same is true for clipping your nails.


I know this seems like an obvious DON'T while in public. The fact that I must write about it is more than slightly disconcerting. But, the number of losers who insist on trimming their nails in public is staggering! On buses, in restaurants, on benches in the mall...there is no place safe from public nail-trimmers.


Many times I am sitting quietly, minding my own business when that oh-so-identifiable "clip" permeates my thoughts. After the first one, I start looking around to see if maybe (hopefully) my ears have betrayed me, and I didn't really just hear that disgusting noise. Yet in every instance, I have been "delighted" to find that my hearing is, indeed, OK. This momentary feeling of elation is quickly followed by immense disgust and paralyzing waves of nausea.


Who trims their nails in public?! I have a hard enough time clipping my own talons while balanced precariously on the edge of my bathtub, trying to ensure the clippings land in the toilet. God forbid, a wayward nail-clipping misses its mark.

So, imagine my displeasure when I was trapped sitting beside a woman who thought the appropriate time to clip her nails was during our morning commute dans l'autobus. What if a nasty-ass clipping landed on me...pinged me in the face...got stuck in my hair?! The horror!!! And as is the usual during a typical Ottawa commute, the bus was full to capacity, standing-room only - I had nowhere to go!

Even though I find trimming one's nails to be one of THE most repulsive acts of personal grooming, I was unable to say anything to the trimming offender. Seriously?! You must do this here? Now? On the bus?!


With every horrific "clip", I grew more and more agitated. My cringes became obvious and noticeable to those around me - except for the nail-trimmer. She was much to focused on the task at hand. I found my self praying that we hit a massive pothole causing this social moron to clip the tip of her finger off. I shot a progressively more annoyed/disgusted/horrified/pissed off/insert-adjective-here glare in her direction in response to each nail modification. Then, came the nail file. I thought I would faint.

In short: Would you shave in public? No. Would you brush your teeth in public? No. But nail-trimming is A-OK. Je m'excuse. Don't be a social moron. Save the personal grooming for behind closed doors, or you will be sacrificed first!

Next up: Cellphone users on public transit

I purposely buy an Express bus pass every month. I do this because it’s more expensive and there are typically more professionals commuting to good jobs downtown. The reduced punk-count and those who can’t afford cars is an appealing selling-feature to me because it means a quiet ride to and from work – perfect for napping and relaxing.

But there is always that one moron who thinks their life is oh-so important they absolutely must take that pressing call from the President. Seriously, no one wants to hear your one-sided, ridiculous conversation about your binge drinking weekends or your shitty relationship.

Remember the days when we ducked into discreet telephone booths to have private conversations? These drama kings and queens (and you know it affects both sexes) need everyone in their general vicinity to know that they’re important. “Hey, listen to me! I’m important because at this very minute, someone NEEDS to talk to me!”

I cannot believe the information these dim people dish out in front of scores of strangers. Addresses, telephone numbers, places of employment. In the words of Antoine Dodson, “You are so dumb. You are really dumb.” If you don’t get that reference, go to Youtube and look him up.

First and foremost: NO ONE WANTS TO LISTEN TO YOU! I love the nap I get to take following a long day at the office. It allows me to rest up and unwind before I get home, thereby ensuring I have energy to workout and go socialize. Your inane conversation interrupts that. It’s virtually impossible to relax while listening to some twit wax poetic about the dude she banged on the weekend. (To be honest, there is no way in hell any man’s wee-wee was remotely close to that grotesque woman to begin with.)

Which brings me to my second point…KEEP THAT SHIT TO YOURSELF! If you wouldn’t talk about these things in front of your Grandmother, don’t talk about it on the bus. Better yet, don’t talk about anything on the bus. Just sit in silence and enjoy the ride. The really unfortunate part is – I am a captive audience! I can’t get off until I get home. It’s like a one-sided episode of Jerry Springer. Or better yet, Maury Povich when he’s trying to determine the paternity of a child. You can’t stop listening, but the whole thing is just grossing you out and making you angry.

Lastly, please remember YOU DON’T NEED TO YELL! I know this is a difficult concept for some people to grasp, but let’s go back to kindergarten and learn about “Inside Voices.” If the guy six rows back is gob-smacked by your shocking revelation that while shopping at La Senza you found out you’re not really a B, but a DD, then you’re probably talking too loud. Also, see the previous points. Is this something you would like to grab the driver’s mic and announce to the entire Population d'Articulated Bus?

In summary, if your phone rings and you absolutely must take it, ring the bell and get off the bus. Otherwise, send the President to voicemail and pick up the message when you get to where you’re going, or you will be sacrificed first.

Let's start with those who cannot park...

This never ceases to amaze me. Somehow, these inept individuals have been given a driver’s license regardless of the fact they cannot safely manoeuvre a motor vehicle at 5km/hr. This should set off alarm bells at the MTO licensing office.

We've all seen them. Forward, reverse, forward, reverse. It seems to go on forever. It’s mind-boggling to think that these people actually passed a road test.  We’re not talking about high-speed emergency braking. Nor are we talking about Nascar-evasive manoeuvres. Nope, we’re talking about glacially-paced parking.

I always cringe when I see a timid looking driver behind the wheel of a massive SUV. To them, the bigger the car, the bigger the crunch zone. Inevitably, they have to park somewhere or back up, and herein, lies the problem:

If you insist on driving a stupidly large vehicle for no good reason (ie: you drive a Suburban but you’re not transporting the Secret Service), then learn how to drive that barge properly. This starts in the parking lot before double-digit speeds are even reached.

Let’s review the basics: two parallel lines with ample space between painted on the pavement, most commonly found in yellow or white. Your goal? Centre yourself between them in as straight a fashion as possible. Seems simple. But somehow, stall parking spots become angle parking spots when that one dunce decides to leave his Expedition wedged in on an angle.

My most recent visit to a shopping mall was my last straw with soccer moms and SUVs.

There were two empty spots, side by side. I pulled in, squarely between the lines, and got ready to climb out. Just then, a woman with a large SUV fronted in beside me. Imagine my surprise when not only was I unable to open my door, but she actually got out and started unloading her stroller!

Finally managing to clamber out of my car, I said, “Parked a bit close, don’t you think?” She was wedged in on a 45 degree angle with her rear tire well over the yellow line.

“Oh, is it?” she quipped, as she continued to unload the stroller. I pointed out the line she was straddling, effectively blocking me in.

“Do you think I should move it?” she asked. I looked at her for a second and wondered if there was a hidden camera capturing this circus.

I replied, “Well, unless you want scratches on this beast when you get back, I’d strongly recommend you move it.” Which she did. And, after four attempts to shimmy over and straighten it out, I was left with a marginal improvement. The end result? I didn’t have to trade any paint with her to get out of my spot.

Bottom line: if you are unable to operate a motor vehicle at 5km/hr or less, you will be sacrificed first.

Welcome to "In case of alien invasion..."

As I accumulate years of earthly existence, I find my tolerance for stupid people rapidly decreasing. While this blog is an attempt to satirize all of the truly dumb people we share this planet with, I may not be able to hide my disdain for the state of humanity.


The stories shared here will indicate just how doomed the human race really is. Darwin is rolling in his grave.