Ranting McRanterson

Ranting mcranterson….

Why do shitheads throw cigarette butts out their car windows? Why the fuck do shitheads who smoke leave their windows down to smoke? If you like smoke so damn much, keep it inside. And stop throwing butts on the ground in this hot, windy, dry weather. You’re going to cause a fire. And you … N.C. fire department license plate in front of me on N.C. 58 today outside of Emerald Isle … Fuck you for doing it. I hope you’re beach house catches on fire. Ok, I don’t really, but damn, you’re a fucking hypocrite.

To the bitch with the stringy blonde hair and the awful, awful, awful, ill-fitting dress at the unmentionable place today … Go Fuck You. If you want someone to do something – even when you hate their guts because they cuss, wear shorts and call you on your bullshit – ask nicely. It actually works.

To the drunk ass rednecks coming out of the shag bar across the street from my house. Shut up. You’re over 50. You shouldn’t be going “Wooooooooooooooo” in public anymore. Ok, you can do that, but do it less than you’re doing now.

Oh, and the bitch in the red Camaro… stop hitting my God damn mailbox. You need to get busted for a DUI. Drink, dance, then drive. Yeah, smart combo. Bitch.

Hey, guy who drives around Jacksonville with the giant, tattered Confederate flag. Stop it. You’re racism is showing. And to the guy who has the giant truck with the huge smokestack things, you stop it too. I don’t want to breathe all that fucking crap.

All the people – including my best friend – who posted pictures of the temperature either in their car, outside of their car, outside their office, or outside their apartments/houses today on facebook and twitter – I DON’T CARE. It’s 95 degrees INSIDE my house right now. I’m poor. That’s one of the ways I save money. But not foolishly cooling my house that I spend maybe six or seven hours a day in. Just ain’t worth it. I’d rather buy good beer.

Why do the grocery stores on the island close at midnight? It’s the summer. The tourists are here. Shouldn’t you be serving them? That way I don’t have to buy beer 30 minutes from my house and it gets hot before I get home.

And fuck you laws. I should be able to drink ONE beer while driving that distance. It will distract me no more or less, or make me no less or more of a driver (or writer) than a Monster energy drink or texting while driving.

The chicken in my fridge that went bad. Fuck you. I paid good money for you. And you spoiled. Yeah, it was my fault for not cooking you sooner, but shit, I really wanted to eat chicken last night.

And to my memory. Fuck you. I left my meal in the fridge and went out and spent 9 bucks on a meal. Dumb ass.

To the members of KISS. Eat shit. You aren’t KISS without Peter and Ace. And dressing up like you are Peter and Ace? Fuck off Tommy Thayer and Eric Singer. Fuck the fuck off.

To the NOLA Media Group. Eat shit. Those job descriptions you put out kept me from applying with your company. I know typing this means you’ll never hire me, even when your plan fails and you either go out of business and it won’t matter, or you go back to what worked. My new CEO says newspapers – the print part – actually has a future. I have no idea what he considers “a future” to be. A year? Ten years? One hundred years? But he spent a whole lot of money to prove it. But still less than your profits from the T-P last year.

Toby Keith fans. Eat shit.

Same for you, Brooks and Dunn or the song Mr. Roboto.

To me, for picking on that kid Ke-ho back in grade school. I was such a dick head.

To me, again, for spelling motherfucker mother fucker to make it two words instead of one.

To my teeth. Eat my ass. To me for the last 20 years, eat double my ass for not getting them fixed before it was too late.

Electronic dart machines in bars? Fuck you.

Internet jukeboxes that allow people to play anything by Slipknot or Stone Temple Pilots. Die in a fire.

The guy who dumped all the waste in the alley between my house and the hotel…I hope bats shit in your mouth tonight and you contract rabies. And I don’t even know if you can get rabies that way. Probably not. Maybe though?

To the people who talk to me in the bathroom. I don’t want to talk to you. I’m peeing or pooping. And yes, I called the shit poop, Adam Sandler. It creeps me out. And today, to the photog that did it, there was a guy taking a shit in there, and it smelled. Why the fuck did you stop me from leaving to ask me about 401Ks?

Lastly, to money. I’ve been bad to you all these years, and you in return have been bad to me. Let’s call a truce and forget about it…Asshat.