priligy generico

Boorish Swine

Warm Fuzzy

Possibly one of the more irritating examples of blatantly obtuse behaviour masquerading as benign charity torn from the pages of  Seven Habits of Highly Defective People is the maddening  penchant for a customer to wait (usually quite impatiently and with a great rolling of the eyes and huffing and shifting their generous weight from foot to foot) as you laboriously produce the change from their purchase (say, perhaps, a delicious pint of lunch) and then finally put that change into their moist and outstretched wagging hand so that they, in turn, can place it in the Take A Penny, Leave A Penny cup.

This is specifically true when a purchase is of a total price between, for example, 5.94 and 5.99 and thus the change being returned falls between the amounts of 1 to 6 cents. Amounts larger than 6 cents are generally, although not always, pocketed, you know, ‘For the next time.’

The perpetrators are, of course, the usual lot one might expect, those of the Tie-Wearing Entrepreneurial Representative Paradigm (TWERP), or the Tiny Witless Ignominious Things (TWIT), or the Tightly Wound Argumentative Types (TWAT), or the Gormless In-bred Troglodytes (GIT), or the Sycophantic Oleaginous Dullards (SOD) – all of whom apparently feel as if they need to somehow reach out to the down-trodden, the little man, and vicariously embrace that warm fuzzy feeling of generosity and giving so that they can feel better about themselves, like Ebeneezer Scrooge on Christmas Day.

But often times they cannot be bothered to physically touch the change themselves, as this would clearly taint their very being, or at the very least pass onto them the dreaded Clerk Cooties. And without the solace of the circled letters ‘CP’ written in pen on the proffered hand, they are obviously at high risk of contamination. Rather they stand glaring at you – palm still outstretched, of course – as you work to remove the change from the cash drawer with the sort of lightning rapidity they so adamantly demand. You are, after all, keeping them from that nutritious pint of vodka, and they’ve only just got another twenty minutes for lunch. And when you finally go to hand them their change, they suddenly whisk away their outstretched palm, step back from the counter and, in a hurried sort of annoyance (probably because you almost touched them) they wag a pointed finger at the Take A Penny cup and say,  ‘Just put it in there!’

Charity by proxy.

Yeah, right now, somewhere in some nameless Third World Country, there’s a starving child with a distended abdomen whose smile is just a little bit brighter because of people like that…


Very many of the world’s faiths teach that God is everywhere. Well, except for Fundamentalist Brand Christianity.  Fundamentalist Brand Christianity teaches that God is in little rectangular bits of green paper.

And today, after all this time, he finally managed to pencil in a little time for a special appearance at Dribble & Whizz. How fortunate I felt when in swaggered Self-Absorbed-Talking-All-Cool-Like-On-the-Cell-Phone-College-Guy. How lucky I felt when he paid me absolutely no attention when I greeted him, not even the slightest glance my direction to acknowledge that someone had spoken to him (because the tiny sound of a simple mortal cannot hope to attain the lofty ears of the divine)!

How I nearly swooned when, after five minutes of him pacing backwards and forwards through the store, I got the blessing of the ‘Shush Finger’ when I dared ask him if he was looking for something. How I almost wet myself in sheerest glee when he started talking about money and a mystical thing called ‘bets’ really loudly. How I thought I might have to dab the sweat from my forehead and have a cool glass of water when, after another five minutes of basking in the glory that was him, I got the blessed ‘Shush Finger’ a second time when I attempted to ask him if he actually planned  to buy anything. Not that his allowing us to witness his vast and supreme coolness wasn’t enough, but after a while I figured a crowd might start swarming and blot out his ethereal light.

How I almost wept with joy when, like Moses before the burning bush, he snapped his cell phone closed with a sharp crack! of finality and with the singing of angels backing him in full chorus demanded ‘Jack?’as if it were the third time he had been forced to ask such a basic question of such an unimportant carbon-based creature.

Thanks Self-Absorbed-Talking-All-Cool-Like-On-the-Cell-Phone-College-Guy!

Mucus, The Gift of Love

Rich, elitist scumbags never fail to take my breath away with their own special brand of arrogance, disrespect, and complete disregard for anyone but themselves, as if the entire world is their toilet, open and ready for use, and those of us in it are merely the empty-headed animal food trough wipers standing at the ready to do their bidding, to be their own personal Jar Jar Binks.

So when this pear-shaped bag of shit waddled in with his gold rings, pleated slacks and stinking of too much Tag body spray (because, well, chicks on TV rip their clothes off for you if you wear Tag and, honestly, they should only be doing that kind of thing for me because I’m the most important person ever on the face of the planet) to get a can of Red Bull and three “little tiny shooters” of Smirnoff for brunch, I wasn’t expecting much in the way of sparkling conversation.

I was also not expecting him to tell me – not ask me, but tell me: ‘Yeah, and give me a paper towel or Kleenex why don’t you.’

Yessah, Ani, meessah go get a tissue…

So I hand him a paper towel which is, after all, what he asked for first (even though the Kleenex was actually closer and clearly withing visual range had he bothered to look).

And he blows his nose – a loud, moist, elephantine honk; a discordant trumpet blast like the angel Gabriel on an off-day – wipes his face as if he’d just finished a spaghetti buffet, complete with the necessary moans and groans of exhaustion, and then…wait for it…

That’s right:

He goes to hand me his big snotty wet paper towel.

I stared at him in utter disbelief as he waggled his mucus-soaked rag at me like Thurston Howell III, and then I let out a scoffing laugh which, obviously, struck him like a physical blow. How dare I!?

‘I’m sorry, man,’ I continued to laugh in amazement, shaking my head. ‘There’s a trash can right outside the door.’ I pointed to it, all of perhaps ten feet away. ‘I’m not your boy.’

He glowed red – whether out of anger or embarrassment, I don’t know – snatched up his purchase and stormed out. I hope he has the nerve to complain to my district manager. I honestly do. I may be a lot of things but, seriously, I am not your bitch.

Cracker Jack

I understand that the type of individual who frequently shops (i.e. daily or sometimes hourly) at a liquor store tends to have the moral compass equivalent to something worthless and sticky expunged from the bottom of a box of Cracker Jack. But since when did it become acceptable to regale your cashier or clerk with such pleasantries as ‘You look like shit’ when they greet you?

How is this, in any way, acceptable? When did this become okay?

The other day I was at Walmart (because I have no money and have to buy cheap things) and, standing in line at the so-called ‘Express’ lane (now, now; that’s for another time, kids), I notice that the cashier, an African-American woman in possibly her sixties, is wearing this ridiculous Shirley Temple wig: bright blonde and full of curls. I actually felt sort of bad for her because I honestly didn’t know if she realised just how goofy she looked in that terrible wig. When it was finally my turn, she greeted me, I responded in kind, and we went about the transaction exchanging the necessary conversation (though she did stop to ask me what I used cilantro for) and then I left.

Did I think her wig stood out like a hideous sore thumb? Of course I did. Did I insult her by making a personal attack out of nowhere? No. In fact, not only no but hell no!

That’s because in a civil society, unless you have some form of Tourette’s (and even that’s not a Get Out of Jail Free card), you don’t blurt out random and thoughtless things just because you think of them. If someone requests the information, sure, you can give it to them, as respectfully and with as much tact as you can (or as dictated by the situation). Or in some cases you can take the person quietly aside, if necessary, and tell them the truth as politely and as non-judgementally as you can.

So when this swaggering douchebag pronounced his considered opinion of me, I hesitated for just a second and said, ‘Whatever. Is that it for you?’

‘You in a bad mood or something?’ he had the nerve to ask in a voice which indicated I had offended him.

And for a fleeting moment I flashed on the scene in Pan’s Labyrinth when the Captain is literally smashing a man’s face in with a bottle and I thought, how wonderful to hear this thoughtless fuck screaming and choking on his own blood as I hammered his nose into the back of his head as I yelled Really!? How the fuck do you look first thing in the morning, Fabio? At least I’m not the stupid motherfucker buying five 24-ounce cans of Natural Ice for breakfast, you miserable piece of shit!

But I said nothing…