Morons!

I am probably one of the most impatient people on earth. Of all of the numerous virtues I possess, I am sadly lacking in that particular one. Nothing irritates me more than waiting in line behind somebody who has no idea what the hell they are doing. I've been using ATM/debit cards for 20 years now, since I first opened a checking account at Anchor Bank at Gwinnett Place mall back in Duluth Georgia, so it is completely beyond my comprehension that in our "moe-durn" society there are still people out there who have no farking clue how to use one at the grocery store. Or even worse--at the damn bank itself.

I've also done my fair share of checking into hotel rooms here in Vegas, and it's never taken me longer than say, three minutes--at the most--to give my credit card, offer a little baksheesh for an upgraded room, sign the contract, get my room key, and head for the elevator. So I just don't understand why people are standing there for ten, fifteen, or even twenty minutes at the front desk. What could they possibly be doing? What problem can't be solved in less than two minutes with a call to the right person? I just don't get it. Those are the people who deserve to lose every dime to the casino when they come to town. Karma must be satisfied.

And don't even get me started on the three hours of my life that the State sucked out of me last week at the DMV. Watching the toads behind the desk in inaction was a real education in bureaucratic demotivation.

Or what about the geniuses in line in front of you at the Taco Bell drive-thru. Not only have they been waiting in line for a couple of minutes between placing their order and actually getting to the window, because of the doofusses in front of them, but once they get to said window, they suddenly realize that they have to find their wallet and then dig around for the money. Meanwhile, my Mountain Dew sits on the counter getting watery, and my Chalupa slowly gets soggy waiting for a good customer like me to pick it up while giving the rocket scientist at the window exact change to avoid any of that complicated math stuff.

As much as I hate all those people, nothing, and I mean nothing, puts me into an ass-kicking rage more that some dipshiat on the road in front of you who taps the brakes for absolutely no reason. If it happens at night, they get the high beams in their mirror. If it happens during the day, well, I just have to suffer in silence and pray that they get a flat tire at a most inconvenient time. At the very least, I get the smug satisfaction that eventually they'll have an expensive brake job in their future.

I find myself agreeing more and more with Tommy Lee Jones in Men in Black when he gave his People Are Stupid speech.

Anyhow, these are small annoyances on my roster of pet peeves. Of course I have plenty more. People who come to Vegas all the time and still spell the main drag downtown as Freemont. It's Fremont, morons. One E. You've been visiting here long enough to know better. I've also come up with a new Sniglet for a certain class of semi-illiterates I shall heretofore refer to as Loosers. Yep, I'm talking about the knuckleheads who don't know the difference between 'lose' and 'loose', yet still put pen to pad--or finger to keyboard--and share their brilliance with the rest of us.

I also hate--and the modern media is the most guilty of this--how people purposely mispronounce words, some of which are now acceptable. When did 'harass' become Harris? Another word, near and dear to me, is 'Hurricane'. Well, sitting here at my desk, I had the History Channel playing in the background. The show that was on as I began typing this screed was called Hurricane Warning.

Like a burr under my saddle, I kept hearing some toolbag talking about a 'Her-kan'. After she said it about five times in less than thirty seconds, I had to turn and see what kind of ill-spoken moron they would interview and put on the air. I stopped typing, looked over my shoulder at the screen, and saw none other than that Hero of Waco, former Attorney General Janet Reno. Of course I can't see her on TV anymore without hearing Austin Powers' voice in my head telling me She's a man, baby...

Anyhow, Janet, the word 'Hurricane' has three syllables. Get it right, otherwise you sound like even more of a buffoon than we already gave you credit for.

One time I was watching the news (Fox, of course) and they were interviewing some token tweed-wearing lefty pseudo-intellectual about some topic of the day, and he used the term 'modern society', except that he pronounced it as moe-dern, with a long 'O'. The reporter actually stopped the interview and said "Excuse me, did you say moe-dern? Did you mean 'modern'". It was a thing of beauty to watch this jerkoff stumble around for a second with the deer-in-the-headlights look, like he was wearing dirty drawers that day and got de-pantsed in front of all of his colleagues.

Nothing gives me more enjoyment in life than seeing dipshiats get called out on their own idiocy.

I had the supreme pleasure of administering a bit of it the other night at work, too. We have a particular player that NOBODY can stand. He comes in every weekend, wearing the same nasty shirt every time, and sits and plays table-minimum pai gow, chain smoking and ordering Budweisers all night long, stiffing the waitresses and the dealers for hours on end. Because of his dumpy appearance and lack of hygiene, you can well imagine that he is a very lonely fellow. Because of this, whenever there is a relatively attractive gal playing at any of the Pai Gow tables, he always ambles over and sits next to them, always trying--and failing--to pick up on them. That irritates me because he drives good players, or at least attractive ones, away from the tables--they can't stand him, so they always leave soon after he sits down.

Anyhow, I had a pretty good looking 40-something gal in a low-cut top sitting at third base on my Pai Gow table the other night, and we were having a lot of laughs and the vibe at the table was very good. Of course, the chair next to her was open, and guess who came waddling up--none other than that dipshiat in the dirty shirt.

It didn't take five minutes before he started being annoying, and the gal at third base was obviously starting to get uncomfortable. I couldn't do too much about it, because he hadn't said anything to get tossed off the table, but I dealt the cards out and waited for everyone to set their hands.

Well, he has two pairs with an Ace, so he leans over to his next imaginary conquest and asks her, "Hey, how should I set this hand?"

I'd seen enough by this time and had to call him out. So I just said You've got to be kidding me--you come here every weekend and sit there telling everyone at the table how to set their hands for ten hours straight, and you expect us to believe you don't know what to do with this one? Puh-leaze. Dude, you've gotta work on your pickup lines!

Not only did everyone at the table start laughing, but so did the pit boss who was standing behind me at the time. The dork left for greener pastures shortly thereafter, and the gal in the low-cut top has been sitting at my table every night since then, telling everyone that I'm the best dealer in the casino.

It was a thing of beauty, a quality smackdown on a well-deserving recipient.

But back to my favorite song from the GNR 'Lies' album, Patience...

There is one issue in my daily life that tries my patience like no other. I'm afraid that I'm going to have to change my nametag back from Mikey to Michael. People can read Michael. Mikey, however, is beyond the grasp of about half the population. If I had a dollar for every time I got called 'Mickey', by this time next year I'd be anchored somewhere in the South Pacific on my new sailboat, drinking rum, and cavorting with native girls.

Seriously people, there is no 'C' in Mikey. My favorite thing to do once somebody calls me Mickey is to cover up the 'Y' on my nametag and ask them, Ok, so what does this say? Usually, they get the MIKE part right. So then I remove my finger and say Ok, so NOW what does it say? Usually the lightbulb goes off at that point.

Sometimes I get a smartass that responds with Well, you look like a Mickey... I love that, because my natural comeback is Um, do you want me to tell you what you look like in front of all the rest of these people? That usually gets a big laugh from everyone else and the tips start rolling in. But you gotta be smooth with that one and deliver it with a smile and a wink or it can backfire.

Anyhow, I've gone my whole life with people mispronouncing my last name when they see it written, or misspelling it when they hear it spoken. So messing up the first name, especially an easy, common one like Mikey starts to wear thin after awhile.

Maybe it would've been better had I been given an easier name like Sid.

Mikey