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Posts tagged ‘Rants’

My Daily Torture

Like most people, I think about the gruesome legend of Prometheus several dozen times a year. But in case you don’t have the mindset of a demented adolescent boy, I’ll give you a quick recap:

According to legend, Prometheus was a Titan back in the era of Ancient Greece (after dinosaurs, before Twitter). All Titans were freaking jacked because, let’s be honest, the League of Immortals didn’t test for steroids yet. But Prometheus had some brains to go with his brawn, and one day he deceived Zeus and stole fire from him. He then gave it to the mortals, because shit was getting cold down there and Snuggies simply weren’t getting the job done.

Zeus, as I’m sure you’re aware, was the Father of the Gods. But I bet you didn’t know he was also the Uncle of Overreaction, and he punished Prometheus for his little prank by chaining him to a rock so an eagle could eat out his liver. The liver would magically grow back every day and the eagle would return, his appetite for foie gras never satiated. The daily torture was excruciating, and Zeus gave this punishment a time limit of eternity, just to be a dick.

By now you’ve surely realized that this article is about how much I hate shaving. This daily torture is easily the worst part of my day, and this is coming from a guy who lives on the 5th floor of a walk-up apartment building. I probably would never shave if it weren’t for my parents, who like to subtly hint that they prefer me cleanly shaven by saying they love me a lot less when I have a beard. Sometimes I’m tempted to say “screw it” and live my life as an orphan, but usually I do what I’m told and dutifully shave off my beard. This is what happens when a 25-year-old still wants an allowance.

Women simply don’t understand how annoying it is to shave your face. They’ll complain about your beard, saying stuff like, “Your stubble hurts my face when we kiss” and, “Shouldn’t you shave? I’ve been telling my friends that you’re a banker and not a writer.” So you shave, and then they complain again, because “why is your face all red and irritated like that?” Oh I don’t know, maybe it’s because on your orders I just spent ten minutes scraping my previously adorable face with RAZOR SHARP BLADES.

Despite dropping a figurative napalm strike over your entire face, you always miss a spot or two. This usually means that you positioned your razor at the wrong angle, since your insolent stubble goes in all different directions, kind of like this blog post. You go back in the bathroom to fix it, but you don’t put on more shaving cream, because screw that. Next thing you know you’ve got a microscopic cut that doesn’t stop bleeding for three and a half hours.

The back of the razor box tells you that, in order to avoid cuts like this, you need to always use a fresh, sharp razor. It makes literally no sense, but since I have no sense myself, I follow their directions and pick up more razors. Too bad the typical pack of razors costs more than the street value of meth. Only bankers can afford it, and as we’ve already established, I’m only a writer who specializes in entrails and ranting.

By the time I’ve gotten over the torture and horrors of shaving, it’s time for bed. Then, like the liver of Prometheus, my facial hair magically grows back overnight. What have I done to deserve an endless punishment like this? I’ve never stolen fire, or any element for that matter. In fact, the only thing I’ve ever stolen in my entire life was a pack of razor blades.

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An Open Letter to the Woman Standing in Front of Me in Line at the Grocery Store

Dear Madam,

My name is Eric Kester, and I had the great misfortune of standing behind you in line at the supermarket. It may come as a surprise to you that I exist, as your leisurely pace and blatant disregard for those in line suggests you believe you are the only person living in this world. I was very much present, however, and I would be remiss to not point out several of your actions that provoked a range of unpleasant emotions from those behind you, from twinges of impatience to thoughts of suicide.

There were several factors that contributed to your unbearably slow checkout process, but perhaps the most influential was the sheer number of items in your cart. You purchased enough groceries to feed a small army*, though I assure you there are precious few instances in life that require 54 packs of string cheese. Maybe you have many children to feed, as suggested by your tired, sunken eyes and the industrial-sized packs of diapers in your cart. But I’ve noticed your preference for discounted frozen burritos, and I have to wonder if those receptacles aren’t actually for you. Regardless of your personal situation, it would have been nice if you recognized that I had only 11 items to your 262 and allowed me to step ahead of you –a common courtesy for a lowly bachelor who’s just trying to get by in a cruel world governed by 10 items or less.

*If you are, in fact, an army general acquiring rations for her troops, please accept my apology and disregard this letter.

The most egregious moment of your checkout process occurred just as the clerk was scanning your last remaining items. In an apparent epiphany, you suddenly realized that you neglected to pick up a third box of Teddy Grahams. You declared that you had to go back and procure this item, implying with the urgency of your voice that failure to do so would yield cataclysmic consequences. You then forced the entire line to wait as you waddled back into the aisles to pick up another box –a move that was, to be perfectly frank, complete bullshit. One would think that since you already acquired two boxes of crackers you would know exactly where to go for a third, but your journey took so long that some of us in line would have started to worry about your safety, had we not hated you.

My final complaint about your checkout behavior regards your actions after all your items were finally scanned. While most people would have utilized the time they stood in line to take out their wallets and prepare a method of payment, you seemed caught off guard when the clerk announced your total, as if it never occurred to you that this mountain of food might actually cost something. You stood agape a moment before opening your purse, digging through that dark chasm like an amateur archaeologist hunting for ancient treasure. You found many things –lipstick, a tampon, another box of Teddy Grahams –but you couldn’t seem to recover any form of American currency. It was a transcendent moment when you finally discovered your credit card –a miracle I would have been happier about, if I wasn’t busy suppressing murderous intentions.

I wasn’t altogether surprised when you couldn’t figure out how to use the self-swipe credit card machine. Typically I would be astounded at anyone who had difficulty operating such a simple and increasingly prevalent piece of technology, but during our extended time together I had concluded that you had the approximate I.Q of a beach ball. After the credit card machine humbled your intelligence, you pulled out your checkbook, but of course you did not have a pen.

Maybe at this point you’ll remember me –I was the guy who offered you a pen. In fact I gave you the very pen I used to write this letter, which I composed, edited, and redrafted while waiting in line behind you.