Some days, people hate me. And almost every day, I hate them back. From the drivers who think speed limits are a number your car should never ever reach, to every mom who has ever bumped me out of her way with a stroller (nope, don’t care if you have a kid, get that stroller off my shins, please), here are the people who throw the most shade. And why I hate them for it.
As in the voice of the iPhone. Siri has never really done me any good and it’s time I called her out on it. In three years she’s misunderstood me, gave directions in wrong states, and told me places I’ve been multiple times didn’t even exist. Seriously, why does this “perk” even exist? It’s like the Microsoft of iPhone functions. (That nerd joke makes sense, right?)
Most recently, after I dropped her in the toilet along with the rest of my phone – my bad – she started throwing the worst kind of shade. Bringing up fights we’d had years ago, telling me my restaurant couldn’t be found and that my location didn’t exist. And when I tried to home-button her out of my life, she all gave me the, “I can’t hear you, Bethaney,” like I’d started it. No thanks, Siri, I have friends I can fight with IRL. And they are way better at directions than you.
The Bartender at the Bar I Now Hate
If you are going to name a bar after a child’s toy, it should definitely be fun. And actually have the beers that are pictured on its taps. Also the bartenders should not ask you four times what kind of beer you want, serve you barf drinks with no carbonation or flavor, examine your ID with a fine tooth comb, and ignore you to flirt with the waitress who was definitely not too busy to get her own silverware. Congrats on making it to my boycott list, guy who I didn’t tip and made no show to hide it.
Every character on Girls
- Hannah, what are you wearing 98% of the time? Please gain some fashion advice from a gay BFF, but not Elijah because that “power clashing” outfit was working for no one. Though to be fair, I thought it couldn’t possibly get worse. And then you changed shirts with that randy from the club and it TOTALLY got worse.
- Marnie, what are you doing with your life?! I really thought you’d be the one to hold it together. (Infinite sighs.)
- Jessa, I don’t understand you at all. Like even a pinky toenail’s worth.
- Shoshanna, you can do no wrong. Keep doing yo thang, girl.
Everyone Who Has Ever Stood in the Varsity Truck Line
At the local bar district, there’s a tasty little donut shop. Which has a food truck in its alley for late-night eating. And while that may sound like a great idea (off which I’m sure they make millions of dollars per hour – drunk people love donuts), it’s also the worst idea in the world. Because everyone is inebriated and not shy about cutting in line. Every time I’ve been there – every time I’ve heard of someone going there – there has always been a fight. Sometimes with a tranny who tries to buy your roommate’s earrings. Sometimes with the fratties with the ugliest of shorts and who need to step back in their matching boating shoes. Bet none of you even own a boat because you’re too busy buying boat clothes and donuts anyway.
Then sometimes, dads who wear purple Hawaiian shirts say, “Everyone can see us cutting,” and then hands someone money. And after the fourth cutter, you call them out for being parents and line cheaters, to which they reply, “We’ve never been here before, (12+ emojis)!” like that is an excuse for being a bad human. Cutting is cutting, and if you are a college parent, you definitely know about waiting. But probably not about how angry I am at your stupid face and that you wore that awesome shirt.
Thirty minutes later, I feasted on a grilled mac and cheese with the fattiest bacon in existence. And while my sandwich is now gone, my rage is not. Causing me to swear off the late-night donut-ness altogether. No offense, Varsity Truck, I just can’t handle the crimes against humanity you tend to provide. Until you get a line judge – preferably a nerdy one who’s real strict about the rules – I’m out.
*It’s possible I was sleep deprived and/or under a PMS-induced rage when this post was written. Or maybe all of these events happened within three days and I couldn’t handle the non-irony of it all. We’ll never know for sure.