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player ready...The first batch of Gripe Mail has arrived and it is a joy to read. Such enthusiastic grumbling, crabbing and maligning. It is moments like this that make me feel joined at the spleen with my readers.
For those who just arrived, I recently invited people to share their pet peeves with me. This was after my colleague, Bob Greene, printed hundreds of uplifting, positive, admirable observations about America. I felt it only fair to give grousers and snarlers their moment.
So let us get on with the bile:
Men who use the restroom and are out in about 30 seconds. You know darn well they haven’t washed their hands.
Fat women who wear those tight-fitting pants that make them look like a sack of manure with a couple of ropes tied around it.
You can’t pay off Chicago cops for traffic violations as easily anymore.
Reading stories in newspapers about troubled kids without any mention of where their bum of a father went or why their idiot mother had five kids by the time she was 21.
Male co-workers who think it is beneath them to answer the telephone if a female is within 25 feet of the phone.
I am handicapped and people often ask me if they can help me do this or that. What’s my gripe? They are only reminding me that I am handicapped. If I need help, let me ask for it.
When theater plays advertise six months ahead for tickets. Who the hell knows if you’re not going to be dead in six months?
Snide hotel guests who think they are original and funny when they see the epaulets of my bellman uniform and ask, “What airline do you work for?”
The whiny liberals at WBEZ, the public radio station, who blame every problem on society instead of irresponsible individuals.
Sex-neutering every word in the country.
Women in short skirts who have fat legs. Hey, babe, buy a full-length mirror.
In my neighborhood, Logan Square, they not only double-park, but they do it next to empty spaces. It’s macho, I guess.
Snippy little bank cashiers who think they own your money and are doing you a big favor by giving you some.
Car alarms that go off in the middle of the night and never stop. These cars should be blown up. And the owners, too.
Governments that kill half a million Arabs and expect us not to notice.
Ten very cheap women who go to lunch together and then ask for separate checks. God forbid they throw in a fin or a sawbuck and call it even.
People who steal the top of my garbage can.
Public nose-pickers, the filthy creeps.
Advertising people in general. Don’t treat me like a moron. I know what I like and don’t like.
Tourists that walk up and down Michigan Avenue and look up at the sky. When I go to Iowa, I don’t look down at the grass.
Computer freaks who talk their weird language to make the rest of us feel stupid. They all look like Woody Allen.
People who leave the toilet seat down.
Working at a currency exchange and stepping away from the window to use the bathroom only to have people knock on the well and yell, “Anyone home?” even though you have a sign posted that says you’ll be right back.
Feminine product ads. Ugh. They are as bad as situational diarrhea ads for men. Double-ugh.
People who brag endlessly about their kids, completely unaware that their kids are just like their parents-egotistical, mean, little brats. (Wow! That really felt good.)
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Those 150 decibel boom boxes in $500 cars with 30 IQ points at the wheel.
The woman on TV in Los Angeles who couldn’t speak English, had eight kids, and said life is hard. Why didn’t she think of that about eight pregnancies ago?
People who say, “Window of opportunity,” because they think it makes them sound smart. How about “Rathole of opportunity?”
Young punks who drive too fast and old geezers who drive too slow. Everybody should drive like me: smooth, sensible, perfect. Oh, and I hate braggarts, too.
People who spit their chewing gum into water fountains and urinals.
I hate it when the little red string on the Band-Aids breaks.
People who invite you to their house then let their dogs come up and try to sniff your privates.
Anyone who drives with a hat on is a dork.
People who get on elevators without letting you off should be smashed in the larynx.
Sales clerks, checkers and other service people who act like you are the biggest annoyance they ever encountered.
The lame, comedic banter between network news anchors. Not once have I heard a witty line. They should shut up and read the script.
Suburbanites who come to Chicago, get drunk, and then urinate on the lawns and sidewalks.
Men who scratch and do not care if women are present. I have been in conversations with businessmen and they will reach down and scratch. Animals!
Chicago’s stinking cold weather. I blame my greenhorn grandparents for not staying on the train until it got to California.
Those cosmetically-correct TV creatures who try to jump-start your day by beaming pukish smiles at you while you crawl out of bed in the morning half hung over. Like that Bob Sirott and those two bimbos. Is that really his hair or live asps hanging from his skull?
There, don’t you feel better? I do. In fact, this is such fun that if I had enough space, I could fill a dozen pages. And I have already received enough gripes to do it, with more rolling in.
So I’ll do it again soon. And a few times after that.
Until than, ciao.
Or, as one reader said: “Anybody who isn’t Italian and says ciao is a jerk.”