Could It Be His Fault?

 

We recently celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of the first broadcast of Mr. Rogers neighborhood. He was a beloved children’s host and Pittsburgh Icon. He will be remembered with a commemorative stamp. From the stories you hear and read, he was the same wonderful man off screen as he was on. You can’t find anyone that has anything bad to say about him…OK, until now.

Hear me out on this one before you start calling me nasty names. It all happened last Saturday when I went to the grocery store. If you remember, that was the day before a holiday. Not a day you want to have to go to Giant Eagle. Unfortunately, I had forgotten a few items on Friday…also, not a day you want to be in a grocery store.

So, because of my stupidity, I would have to subject myself to hell once again.

It all started on my drive to the store. There’s a four way stop sign along the way. If you’ve spent much time at one of these, you know this is where civilization meets Armageddon. There are those that realize whose turn it is and those that really screw things up.

Everything was going smoothly on this day. There was a car to my right that had arrived before me. After he went, it would be my turn. It’s just that as he preceded through, another car speeded up behind him and went through the stop sign without stopping. For some reason, this idiot thought they were special and stop signs didn’t apply to them

Next, I came up to an intersection with a left hand turn lane. There was one car in front of me at the light. When the arrow turned green, the car didn’t budge. I noticed the woman driving was too busy texting to notice the light. I gave the horn a friendly tap, still nothing. Then, the light turned yellow and then was gone. We had missed the turn. At this point I laid on my horn in a way that could only say you’re a moron.

She just mockingly waved at me, like it was no big deal we would have to sit here for five more minutes. At that point I wanted to stick that phone in a place where butt texting would be her only option. But, it was a holiday weekend after all…No, I wasn’t showing compassion. I just didn’t want to spend the weekend in jail.

Once again I had encountered a special person that live by their own set of rules.

The crowded Giant Eagle was where I had my revelation. Every checkout line was packed. It would be days before some of these people got out of there. Luckily, I only needed a few items so I headed to the “fifteen items or less self-check-out” lane.

And there she was, holding everybody up, the woman with 42 items. I know this, I will tell you how in a second.

Apparently, fifteen items or less only applied to the rest of us, not this special lady. Then I started thinking about all the special people I had encountered that day and what could be responsible. That’s when it dawned on me…Mr. Rogers.

You heard me right, Mr. Rogers! Didn’t he tell us every day that we were special and there was nobody else like us? Now, cynical little boys that grew up to be aggravated men didn’t buy it. But it looks like some of these idiots did. Now they think they’re so special that they can do whatever they want.

The woman checking out was oblivious to the fact she was doing anything wrong. That’s when another beloved PBS figure popped into my head. “The Count” from “Sesame Street.” In my best Transylvanian accent, I counted each item as she scanned it. Once she got to fifteen I just counted each item as fifteen.

“Fifteen…fifteen…fifteen…”

In my head I was keeping tabs. When she got to her final item, a ham, it wouldn’t scan…She kept trying and I kept growing more aggravated. I was thinking about putting that ham in a place where only the most disgusting of her relatives would have eaten it.

Do you notice a theme here? If I hadn’t controlled my temper, it would have been a busy and strange day in the local emergency room.

Finally, she got the ham to scan. That’s when I blurted out…

“Forty-Two!”

She looked back at me and shot me a glance. One that should let me know that she’s special. Hey sorry, I’m not Mr. Rogers. If I were, I’d kick the special people out of my neighborhood.

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You’re Not Going Anywhere

This past week, #DeleteFacebook was trending. That’s because we found out that Facebook was allowing a group called Cambridge Analytica to harvest our information to use against us. We’re used to having our information hacked or stolen but harvesting for some reason seems much worse.

Maybe we don’t want our information handled like wheat. Or worse yet, human organs for sale on the black market. We’ve all heard the stories. So now you’re picturing yourself waking up in a bathtub filled with ice and a hole in your phone where your Facebook app used to be.

We’re constantly being monitored and giving away personal information. Every time you scan your supermarket card to save ten cents on a bag of chips, they’re studying your shopping habits. They know who the people are that buy four dozen rolls of toilet paper every time it’s supposed to snow more than an inch.

They’re saying Cambridge Analytica used the information they obtained to influence the last election. You’re mad at Facebook because you listened to the funny cat photo that told you who to vote for? They knew how to work you.

That time you liked the chicken salad your friend was having for lunch. The one, that for some reason they had to take a picture of and post it instead of just eating the damn thing. Seriously, all of the crap that you have to wade through on Facebook never made you think of leaving, but now that you’ve been harvested it’s enough.

How do you think Facebook knows when and how you’re going to die? Or, what percent asshole you are? None of those things ever made you wonder? It took Cambridge Analytica to finally push you over the edge. Analytica isn’t even a real word. Of course neither was Facebook and it won’t be anymore. Not when we’re done with them.

I’m going to start Faceless book. You won’t know who anybody is. There won’t be any more likes. Instead you can only choose dis-like or don’t-care. You won’t know whose feelings you hurt because you won’t know who they are.

Let me warn you, Facebook doesn’t make it easy to leave. First of all, you have to find the deactivation page in your account settings. Then you have to reenter your password…I think I now have 700 passwords and I can’t remember any of them. How can anybody steal something that I don’t even know?

Then Facebook asks you,

“Are you sure you want to deactivate your account?”

That’s how it starts. Then, photos of all your friends pop up, telling you how much they’re going to miss you. Then Facebook starts crying and says,

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me. Wasn’t it just last week I let you see what you would look like if you were a leprechaun?”

It’s all a big guilt trip. But, that doesn’t faze me. I have an Italian Catholic mother. She never asked me to do anything in my life. She just guilt’s me into doing it.

“I don’t know how my grass is going to get mowed. Maybe I’ll see a stranger walking down the street and ask them.”

And Facebook thinks they can make that crap work on me? C’mon, I’m 80 percent asshole after all.

 

 

Luck of the Irish

 

 

It’s 9 o’clock on a Saturday…except in the song “Piano Man,” it’s Saturday night. Here you are on Saturday morning, in a bar, getting warmed up for the St. Patrick’s Day parade. There won’t be another Saturday St. Paddy’s day until 2029.

Yeah, I know it should happen every five to seven years because of leap year. This is what happens when leap year comes around the same year that St. Patrick’s Day would fall on Saturday. I know, you’re having trouble wrapping your mind around that one. That’s because you started drinking at 9 in the morning.

Remember when you left the house this morning, you told yourself this year you would drink responsibly. But then you realize it will be 11 years before the stars align and there’s a Saturday St. Pat’s Day.

It seemed like a good idea to start off with some Irish coffee to take the chill off. That would warm you up so you could drink green beer during the parade. Remember you drank green beer. Maybe have someone write it backwards on your forehead. That way you can read it when you look in the mirror. You know, when you’re trying to figure out why your vomit is green.

After you’ve had your fill of green beer, you can switch to margaritas, since they’re green too. At some point you’ll probably get hungry. You’ll think,

“Since  its St. Patrick’s Day, I should eat some Irish food. Something with cabbage.”

This is where you will cross over into dangerous territory that you won’t be able to return from.

Then, without knowing how, you will end up in the Southside or the North Shore…I’m sorry, I still can’t understand how the North Side became the North Shore…Wouldn’t it also be the South Shore? Why does South Side get slighted? Is it because of all of the public urination on weekends?

Speaking of which, with so many people on a drinking marathon, the whole city becomes one big toilet on St. Patrick’s Day.

Remember the NCAA tournament is in town this weekend. We have people from all over the country. We don’t want them to go home saying, in Pittsburgh you can pee wherever you want. We’ll have every rube in the nation trying to relocate here.

Also, if somebody from out of town asks for directions or a recommendation, the proper response is not,

“What, d’ you call me?”

You should also keep your distance when speaking to someone. Remember, your tongue is green and your breath smells like cabbage. This is even worse is you haven’t been eating cabbage.

One of the last things you’ll remember is walking around with the town looking like its being invaded by Vikings or Pirates. That’s the parts that don’t look like “Dawn of the Dead.”

If you’ve ever been on a drinking marathon, you know they can only end ugly. What starts as a good time, crosses the line at some point. That’s usually the part you try to remember the next morning.

You know, the next morning. When you start to actually believe in the “Sandman.” That’s because it feels like he spent the night dancing on your head. Not to mention the bag of sand he dumped in your mouth.

This is when you’re trying to figure out whose underpants your wearing, and how you can read “You Drank Green Beer” on your forehead in the mirror.

This is always a good time to turn on the morning news and make sure you’re not on it. Hey, as bad as you feel now, you have until 2029 to recover.

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