Anger at the Airport
This guy is probably my age. Likely younger, because he looks older and I’m aging well.
Although, with the degree and length of my high stress levels the last month, I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to make that claim.
Fuck this guy.
Why? Why not? He looks like everything I hate. Shirtsleeves unrolled and buttoned at the cuff. Relax, bruh, you’re at the airport. Thick, black wedding ring. Nothing like carbon dating your marriage with an ugly, obtrusive circle shoved over your knuckles. I hate these wedding rings for the same reason I hate gigantic engagement rings—it’s a spotlight. Look at me! Someone pissed on me and I’m theirs! I’m married! Wanna have an affair!? And, to be clear, I hated these rings before my marriage went to shit. I was so grateful my then girlfriend didn’t want a huge rock that would snag her clothes, blind drivers on the freeway, and peacock that her boyfriend has money. Subtlety is sexy. Less is always more. Make a statement by being understated with your fashion accessories. I was so grateful my fiancé was okay with a subtle wedding ring for me.
I wish love and good taste for all God’s children.
His hair is thinning. Poor sod. I guess I win there.
Thing is, he looks basic. He probably loves brunch. He probably drinks his Maker’s and Coke with the mixing straw bent down between his fingers as he sips from the rim of the glass. God, dudes, just take the fucking straw out. Remove the obstacles. Don’t make things harder for yourself—life is hard enough. Case in point: I have to share a bar top with the likes of you.
At least this bar is playing America. The band. Not the country. You do know the difference, right? I doubt this guy does. I’d bet my last dollar—always fast approaching—that this dude charges the dance floor to tear it up at every wedding when that Black Eyed Peas song comes on. You know the one. The wedding/bar mitzvah song. “I Gotta Feeling.” Terrible. Fucking trash. And now the bar is playing, Van Morrison’s “Domino.” One of my favorites. Easily top 15 jams. Has this guy heard it? Can he name a single Van Morrison song other than “Brown Eyed Girl?” Judging—and yeah, I’m being a judgmental cunt right now—by his wedding ring, I doubt he can.
You know what I hate most about this guy? He looks calm. Maybe his spirit animal is a duck. Maybe he’s working his chubby ass off under the surface. I admire the calm appearance. (The ring is still stupid—so is his shirt.) I am never calm. I am always one moment away from a hateful panic of fury. I do not belong among the dullards of basic, normal men. I am in constant need of a lobotomy or an alien abduction. I don’t belong here. I should not be here. Everything is terrible and the Matrix is fucked. Also, The Matrix is a stupid movie. Its sequels are even worse. I’m in the minority on this opinion, which proves my point.
Oh, wait, what’s this? He just ordered a beer and a shot. Tequila!? Okay, man… okay. Maybe you’re not so bad. Maybe we could be friends. But, so help me Satan, if you mention your crypto game or invite me to participate in your fantasy anything league, I’ll have no choice but to kill us both.
