Are you kidding pregnant teenaged pizza shop girl?

In a day and age where celebrities are all the craze, it comes as no surprise to see girls getting haircuts like their favorite television character, wearing clothes they saw in OK! Magazine, or making a sex tape with *insert somewhat-known musician/athlete/Austin Powers midget.* Celebrities are good looking, have tons of money, and, from the perspective of most Americans, live the dream life. But when teenage pregnancy became the new "shave my head and lose custody of my sons," one would think the line would be drawn. Well, one would think wrong. Are you kidding pregnant girl in the pizza shop? It's bad enough I have to read about the Alaskan teenager who got knocked up, happens to be the daughter of a Vice Presidential candidate, and wore an Ohio State hoody the same day she was photographed to be on the cover of the New York Post. (Ohio State supporters are fertile. Who knew? Go Bucks!) And it's bad enough that I had to read about the redneck teenager who got knocked up, happens to be the sister of the aforementioned celebrity who started the "shave my head and lose custody of my sons" trend, sending the Alaskan baby mama a gift. But for you to follow said trend and throw it in my face by wearing a shirt that reads, "I'm not fat, I'm just pregnant," well that's just too much. What's wrong with you? It was like your pregnancy was Rick James, and it just slapped me in the face. It's times like this, pregnant teenaged pizza shop girl, that you should choose your own destiny. A great animatronic Aztec Temple carving once said "the choice is yours and yours alone." And you should probably heed this advice. For if Ol' Mac from Legends of the Hidden Temple doesn't know a thing or two about teenaged pregnancy, then I'm a Silver Snake...or a pit bull who wears lipstick.

Are you kidding political facebooker?

It's called facebook.com. That's face and book combined to make one word. It's not called soapbox.com. It's not called tell-me-your-political-views.com. And it's sure as hell not called how-do-you-feel-about-hot-beauty-pageant-moms-turned-governor-who-happen-to-land-a-potential-vice-presidency-spot.com. So what gives you the right to bombard my news feed with political slogans and news stories? Are you kidding political facebooker? Guess what? I don't give a rat's ass who you're voting for. And I'll let you in on a little secret...neither does anyone else. Are you really under the illusion that posting or commenting on a story from Fox News is going to sway a person's opinion one way or the other? Let me tell you something. You're not Stephen Colbert; You're not John Stewart; and you are NOT John Stamos. Now I know Mr. Stamos doesn't have his own political commentary show on Comedy Central, but are you really going to disagree with Uncle Jesse? Didn't think so. Let's try to get back to normalcy, before the election. A more peaceful time, where instead of finding out whether you bleed blue or red, I could spend my time finding embarrassing pictures that you untagged of yourself, hoping noone would see. But in all honesty November is 2 months away. That's almost 60 days, and chances are I'll be on facebook 58 of them. So instead of posting that political Youtube video that you think is so funny that all of your friends need to see it too, take a page from David Duchovny's book and use the internet for what it was intended: Porn.

Are you kidding MTV reality show alumni?

If a baseball player isn't talented, he gets cut from the team and won't be in a Gatorade commercial. If a musician isn't talented he gets booed off stage and probably won't be in the next edition of Guitar Hero. And if an actor, like Bob Saget, isn't talented he wouldn't have fathered the Olsen twins as Danny Tanner for 8 seasons. So why is it that a person who has no talent but has been on reality television gets treated like they crap gold bars? Are you kidding MTV reality show alumni? Sure you can go to the bar and drink for free, hook up with anything that walks, and have it all documented in night vision, but that hardly constitutes as a talent. And yet you show up to clubs, restaurant openings, clinics with free STD tests, acting like you are the most important person there. But really, besides degrading yourself on national television every Wednesday night at 10 pm for 12 weeks what have you done? Gotten in catty fights over pointless issues; sure. Thrown up on the street or gotten arrested; of course. Contributed anything worthwhile to society that entitles you to the royal treatment; not really. And when someone is excited to see you (for some awful reason) don't act like you are too good to say hello. You're not. You're just some kid MTV producers decided to exploit to sell ad spots, nothing more. They used you like Pam Anderson used dirty needles. And while she contracted hepetitus, the MTV excecs made thousands of dollars and all you recieved was a free bottle of Belvedeer and a life full of shame as a chaser. But maybe I'm looking at this the wrong way. It is possible that instead of going to college and getting a degree I should have been trying to win over Telia Tequilla's love. Because Uncle Jessie didn't go to college. He started a band and seemed to do all right... until the show got canceled. And unfortuatly MTV reality show alumni there is no cancel button in real life, so either stay home or wait in line and pay for your drinks like the rest of us.

Are you kidding fat lady escalator blocker?

I could complain that I had to sit on the runway for 2 hours the day before only to have my flight get canceled. But I won't. I could complain that Continental charged me $50 to change my flight from Laguardia to Newark. But that's in the past, and there's nothing I can do about it. (Literally. I called up customer service and the ever-so-nice lady and her supervisor told me so...twice. Also, the pleasantly kind supervisor told me that she didn't have a supervisor I could talk to and although she wouldn't tell me exactly who he was, I couldn't talk to the person who signed her pay check either.) Or I could complain that Jimmy Fallon as a replacement for Conan is like substituting toilet paper with that of sand, but seeing as I've never actually wiped with sand paper, I guess that wouldn't be fair. No, I'm not going to complain about any of those things because you made me miss the downtown E train by taking up the entire escalator and walking at a snail's pace. Are you kidding fat lady escalator blocker?It's bad enough I had to walk behind you on the non-moving escalator. I had to agonizingly watching you move down the stairs like a boulder falling through a Plinko board. Shifting your weight unexpectedly so that every time I thought you were going one way, you moved the other blocking my ability to pass. I had to listen to you breathe as heavy as Rocky after he fought Apollo Creed, for three flights of stairs. And this was taking the stairs going down! But the worst part was that as I descended the stairs at a snail's pace, I thought "I'm going to miss my train." And as sure as your love affair with the King and Queen of Burgers and Dairy, respectively, when I finally reached the platform, the E train was pulling away. I guess that's where Sir Mix A Lot and I differ. Because instead of letting you into my Mercedes, I would have rather pushed you in front of that train I missed. (And no, my anaconda didn't want none. And yes, it took me until I was about 15 to realize what that meant.) So the next time you want to take the walk down to the train, fat lady escalator blocker, step aside. Or take the elevator, because let's be honest, is that trip down the stairs really going to make that big of difference?

Are you kidding Moe's Southwest Grill?

Some things should definitely have an expiration date. Milk. Perishable Food. Lauren Conrad. News stories about rising gas prices and how the economy isn't doing too hot. (We get it. It's bad out there. But you sending a reminder everyday by reporting on how the price of a barrel of oil is up or how airlines are cutting jobs does not help. How about I come over to your house everyday after I let dogs pee on your carpet and remind you how bad it smells. Then you'll know how the public feels when they see your stories.) However, the one thing that should never have an expiration date is a good bargain. So then why is it that when I order off the kids menu you didn't give me the included cookie and soft drink. Are you kidding Moe's Southwest Grill? I walked all the way to 1st avenue in the 20's for the Moo Moo Mister Cow. And as I made my journey downtown I was excited with anticipation. I haven't had a dining experience with you since college and as I thought about the mini burrito, chips, cookie, and soft drink all for the low price of about $8, it's not difficult to understand why. So imagine the disappointment and betrayal I felt when your employee told me that the cookie and drink would not be included because I was too old. Sure the menu says for kids 12 and under and the cookie and drink only ended up being an extra $2.50, but what the hell? Would it have killed your profits for the day? Were you trying to prove a point? I also didn't appreciate that when I told your employee the Moe's at The (pronounced Thee) Ohio State University gave me the free cookie and soda, he snidely replied, "Well, this is New York." As if I accidentally stumbled into your store, not knowing what city/state I was in. I wanted to reply, "Well, this is Gigli" and torture him by forcing him to watch that horrible Ben Affleck/JLo movie, but it probably wouldn't have gone over too well. (Plus, that would have taken a lot of preparation and time and I was hungry) I've never known the feeling of being discriminated against for my age. Sure people might look at me funny when they find out I still watch cartoons, but that doesn't take money out my pocket. The only good thing that came out of this is that I finally could relate to how Blanche felt on the Golden Girls when Bea Arthur told her she was too old to be promiscuously dating. That, and I had one of my worst after-meal episodes in your restroom. So I guess we're even.

Are you kidding A-Rod?

Being a professional athlete has to be awesome. Not only do they get paid millions of dollars to play a game, they almost instantly become famous. The city that they play for falls in love with said athlete and pretty much anything they want is theirs; Nice apartments. Really good concert tickets. I bet they even get free refills at restaurants that don't give free refills. So it's not surprising when they act like they can do/get anything they want; even when that thing is a 50 year old single-named married pop star with a fake British accent. Wait, that doesn't sound right at all. Are you kidding A-Rod? You could probably have any girl in New York City and you settle for the material girl? I could understand if this was 1988 and you were into that sort of thing. But 20 years later? Maybe you just got finished watching A League of Their Own. You play baseball. The movie was about baseball. You must have tried Gina Davis but she showed no interest (even though you insisted you've seen all 19 episodes of Commander in Chief) so Madonna must have been the next best thing. Maybe you're into kabalah or women who adopt babies from random African countries. But if that's the case shouldn't you have gone after Angelina Jolie. Sure she's pregnant and quasi married to Brad Pitt, but you're the highest paid player in professional baseball. That has to count for something. Or maybe you just wanted the attention. Because let's be honest, what athlete doesn't? Take O.J. Simpson for example. He not only touched the lives of millions on and off the football field in the mid-ninties, he still grabbing headlines today. And I know you didn't kill your wife (and technically neither did OJ), but the next time you want to grab the headlines, maybe you should do something a little more exciting than Madonna. Like a Canadian hooker!

Are you kidding delivery man with no pen?

When I'm hungry, I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want to call anyone. I don't want to read anyone my order and listen to them breath heavy into the phone and repeat everything I say in an accent I can't understand as it takes 5 minutes to write down the order. I just want my food as quickly as possible. Luckily, with the advent of the internet there is a solution to this problem. www.seamlessweb.com All I have to do is click a couple of times, enter my credit card information, and in 15-30 minutes my food is at my door. It's like room service for my apartment. Quick. Convenient. Just sign the receipt and get my food. No problems, one would think. But there is a problem. (You have to know by now that if there were no problems I probably wouldn't be writing about this.) The problem is when you want me to sign the receipt, but you don't bring a pen. Are you kidding delivery man with no pen? When I open my door and see you with my bag of food, I'm already salivating from the mix of anticipation and hunger. The only thing standing between me and a delicious meal is my Herby Hancock on the receipt you're holding. But you don't have a pen allowing me to sign. Why would you leave the restaurant with out a pen? That would be like a baseball player stepping up to the plate with no bat. I bet if you got hit in the back with a 90 mile per hour fast ball you'd never forget again. But therein lies the problem; there are no consequences for the lack of attention to detail that you put into your job. I already tipped you online because (being the good person that I am) I figured with a nice tip you'd get to my apartment more quickly. But you shatter my goodwill and hope with your lack of writing utensil. The next time you show up to my door without a pen, I should spray you in the face with water like a dog learning not to pee on the carpet. But then you might get mad delivery man with no pen, and then I'd probably not get my food which makes me worse than when I started. So I'll search through the junk drawer in the kitchen, find a pen, and angrily sign the receipt. But know that every time you show up to my door without a pen, a puppy dies. And that makes you delivery man with no pen a puppy killer.

Are you kidding elevator door opener?

I thought the person who rode the elevator to the third floor was the worst person to ride with. Lazy. Selfish. How could it get worse? But you, elevator door opener proved me wrong. When I step into that small box that transports me from floor 1 to 25, I want to get out of there as quickly as possible. Sure, some elevators have TV in them, but after riding a couple of times the stories rerun. (Plus they are written for really slow readers. Is 3 lines about how Anne Hathaway's ex-boyfriend stole money from Vatican investors really supposed to last me 30 floors?) So as the elevator doors are just about closed and I see your body extremity pop into view and pry the doors open, you can imagine my frustration. Are you kidding elevator door opener? Are you really in that big of a hurry that you can't wait the 30 seconds for the next one of 6 elevators to arrive? Do you have an appointment that you can't be late to? Sure, going to the doctor on time is important. But whether you find out you have herpes at 9:05:00 or 9:05:30 really isn't going to make that big of difference. Look at the big picture elevator door opener. (Yes. Everyone who pries open the elevator door clearly has questionable morals, and therefore makes bad decisions, sexual and/or otherwise. So it's safe to assume that they have *insert favorite STD here*) And the worst part is, when you pry open the door you not only let yourself in, you let in all the other people waiting as well. I get shoved to the back of the elevator and now my ride is uncomfortable because of you. Does it matter that I am on floor 25 and the elevator starts service on floor 24? Does it matter that when you walk in you say sorry and I pretend not to hear you and stare at the TV reading the same story for the 5th time? Does it matter that the regular TV season was cut short this year? No. None of these things matter to you. (I know that the last one is totally unrelated, but like your elevator etiquette both are complete bullshit.) So please elevator door opener, the next time you see the doors closing do what Carl Winslow would do when he saw Steve. Just pretend like it's not there.

Are you kidding morning peep show frequenter?

I'm back working in Manhattan. Luckily the place where I am working is close enough to my apartment that I don't have to wake up too early and can walk across town to the office. Walking across town entails going west of 32nd or 33rd depending on how crowded 32nd is. On this particular day I reached 33rd and 6th Ave just like any other day. Except on this day I saw you, morning peep show frequenter. I saw you walking out of the shady establishment with a big red "Adult DVD's" sign hanging above it, not looking ashamed or embarrassed. No. I saw you leave that place as if you just stopped into Starbucks for an espresso and maybe a muffin (I don't know how hungry you were, but considering your morning activities let's assume you are). You looked like it was totally normal for you to be leaving a one stop porn shop at 9am. I thought it was a little strange, but chalked it up to one of those freak things that you only see once and didn't think much of it after that. Until the next day. Because on the next day I left my apartment, headed west on 33rd, and as sure as Showtime is the best channel for summer television (No really it is, just by its Monday nights alone) there you were, walking out of the porn palace. Are you kidding morning peep show frequenter? While most people are trying to beat the morning commute, you're trying to beat something else. I guess I could understand if this was 1980, and the Busty Babes 7 VHS was hard to come by, but with the invent of the internet you really have no excuse. I always wondered what type of person would work at such a place, let alone go there. How about you take a page from Steve Job's book and in public places instead of yourself, you touch your phone (but wait untill July 11th because that's when the new phone comes out. And buying one now would be a waste of money.)

Are you kidding broken subway card holder?

I know I have been gone for a while. But if you hadn't realized blogging about things that piss me off in New York City isn't my day job. Plus, I havn't been here for most of the month so that's my excuse. Sorry. (Actually I'm not. But after acouple of you have reached out to me for a new post I figure appologizing would make you feel better about yourself. Because really, what else have you got going for you?)

There are very few good surprises that happen when living in New York City. Don't get me wrong, there are surprises. Like when you turn the corner and a homeless person starts peeing on your shoe. Or when you go out to lunch and a make your own salad costs $15. Or when you sign the $2500 per month lease for a 450 sq. ft. apartment that anywhere else in the country would cost $500. All unexpected, yet I would hardly classify them as good. But there still are some good suprises that come out of living in the city. And one of the best one is when I am walking down the stairs to the subway station and the train is just pulling up. When I see that blur of silver rush by and I know that I'm not going to have to wait, I have such a good feeling that I think nothing can upset me. I forget about my absurd rent, my fortune costing lunch that had made me gassy, and even my bum-pee soaked sneaker because at that moment I really know what the Starland Vocal Band was singing about in their song "Afternoon Delight"; getting to the subway station as the train's arriving. But all this jubilation comes crashing to a hault because as I go to the one open turnstile onto the platform I get stuck behind you. Are you kidding broken subway card holder? I know this isn't your first time using your broken card because the thing looks more worn out then R. Kelly's old Disney Channel VHS tapes. And there's a pretty good chance that if the machine didn't read the 5th swipe, the 15th isn't going to register either. I say something under my breath loud enough for you to hear. I breath heavy so that you know I am angrily waiting. But you still keep on going at it like a fat kid and a bucket of KFC. And the most frustrating part about it is that you are a successful business(wo)man. (Or at least you dress like one.) You can raise revenue, and create financial forecasts but when it comes to sliding a piece of plastic through a card reader to get on the subway, it looks like you should be riding in the short car. So thank you broken subway card holder, you killed the joy in my subway riding experience. Murderer.

Are you kidding douche bag in the club?

Maybe it's because I was an accounting major in college. Maybe it's because I'm not from the east coast. Or maybe it's because my head's not so far up my ass that I think spending $300 on a bottle of alcohol automatically gets me on the cool bus. Are you kidding douche bag in the club? Let's do the math. I go to the liquor store and buy my bottle of Grey Goose for $30. You go to the club and get yours for $300. Sure mine does not come with sliced limes and lemons, cranberry juice, tonic water, and a waitress with questionable morals, but I hardly think all that's worth $270 (that excludes the tip for said waitress). You stand there sipping your drink, listening to the music that's playing too loud, acting like you own the place. But one would think that if you can afford to pay 100 times the retail price of alcohol, you could afford to at least hire friends of the opposite sex. So why is it that every time you stand up to look over the crowd you end up doing that awkward head bobbing and swaying combination, that if you are drunk enough I guess could be mistaken as dancing? Believe me the music's not that good. And don't kid yourself. All the girls that actually do come up to you aren't there for your stellar personality. They're using you for your alcohol like Bill Clinton uses interns. Don't you realize that drinking and spending money isn't the key to happiness unless you are Eddie Murphy. In 1985 all he wanted to do is "Party All the Time" and then he went on to be successful. So unless you've voiced a donkey or impregnated a Spice Girl, douche bag in the club, maybe you should keep your money and stay home.

Are you kidding Spoiled Attractive Lady on the Bus?

This is another guest post. I should be able to write one for tomorrow. As you saw from Monday's post I have been traveling and haven't been able to post as frequently this week. Don't cry about it. Enjoy this one.

Let’s face it, women are spoiled...especially the attractive ones. Attractive women can get pretty much whatever they want, and they know it. When I see a good looking woman coming into a store after me I wait there to hold the door open in the rain with no umbrella. When there is an attractive woman waiting on my table I tip more than I should. When an attractive woman is talking to me at the bar and I know that it is only because she wants me to buy her a drink I buy her that drink. And when there is an attractive woman on the corner of the street asking me if I have 5 minutes for the children I always say “Of course I do, the children are our future” even though the starving children of Djibouti are not in the top 10,000 of things that worry me when I wake up in the morning. There are some instances, however, that simply cross the line. One of these line crossing events happened to me this morning. As I was sitting on the bus with my iPod doing my morning crossword puzzle, I notice a very attractive woman somewhere between the ages of 27-35 standing in front of me, looking at me, and moving her lips. I took my iPod off and asked if she was talking to me, to which she replies “Can I sit here?” I looked around noticing there were no seats available on the bus, but also watched her walk onto the bus without a limp and she was obviously not pregnant given the fact that her surgically enhanced funbags were daring me to see if they made a noise when squeezed. When I finally realized that she did not want to sit on my lap and talk about the first thing that popped up, I replied that I was sorry but I was busy doing the crossword and needed to sit to do that. Are you kidding spoiled attractive lady on the bus? I wake up earlier every morning because experience has taught me that if you get to the bus stop before 7:40 am you can get a seat on the bus, thus enabling me to do my crossword puzzle. Get to the bus stop after 7:40 and the rush hour crowd forces you to stand for your commute with all the peons and blue collar people. I have 2 female bosses that I report to. I have seen my company’s performance goals and know that part of my bonus hinges on a certain percentage of employees in my department being female and “persons of color”. Aside from the obvious questioning of whether or not “persons of color” is an appropriate term after the Civil Rights Movement, I feel like I have given enough of myself to attractive women over the years and this was one battle that I simply refused to lose. I immediately got quite angry and had to calm myself by thinking what another great American would do…and I am pretty sure that I made a choice that would make Al Bundy proud. Al would never let Peg sit in his seat on the couch, even if she promised never to bring Marcy D’Arcy over to the house again. Al would never get up off his seat on the couch even if Kelly was having her friends over for the Hawaiian Tropic Video Shoot and needed to sit on that very couch. I am pretty sure Al Bundy would feel the exact same way I or any other rational American that is not a spoiled attractive woman would feel: If a woman can be my boss, take half my assets for doing nothing more than simply fulfilling my manly needs, and run for the President on the United States, then she can damn sure stand her ass up on the bus.

Are you kidding American Airlines?

I had to fly out of that little slice of hell better known as Laguardia early Saturday morning. I went out the night before so I wasn't in the best of moods when I woke up at 6:30am to grab a cab. I should have known that it was going to be one of those days when the cab driver turned to me and asked for cash to pay the toll at the tunnel. I asked if he had the EZ Pass (little box in the car that charges you automatically) and if he could just throw it on there I would pay him back at the end when I used my credit card to pay for the rest of the toll. Well you would have thought I asked him if it was alright to take a crap in the back seat by the way he responded no, so reluctantly I gave him the 5 bucks. (It wasn't the new five. How stupid do those look? Someone at the Treasury Department really screwed the pooch on that one. Poor Abe Lincoln.) Anyways, after I went through security, I checked at the gate to make sure the 9 am flight was on time. The representative sweetly responded the plane was running about 20 minutes late. 20 minutes isn't bad for Laguardia, so I considered myself lucky. Until that same representative went to the ticket podium. She looked like she was getting ready to take tickets for boarding, but American Airlines had other plans. She got on the loud speaker and said in her sweetest voice that the flight had been canceled due to low visibility. Are you kidding American Airlines? When I get up to go to the bathroom at night I have low visibility but I somehow manage to hit the bowl. (Most of the time. Sometimes the tiles get a little. Who knew tiles were into that sort of thing? Kinky.) And that's without a copilot or computer assistance. The fog must have really cleared up by 9:30 because the Delta flight left for Columbus on time. Also, if the plane was running 20 minutes late wouldn't that mean that it was en route when I originally asked about the flight? Maybe the show Lost really could happen between the Midwest and the East Coast. Or maybe that spawn of Satan you employed to stand behind the counter lied to me. Don't worry there is a silver lining to the story. I talked one of your nicer employees into giving me a meal ticket worth $10. (And in all seriousness I really did appreciate it. But that doesn't make for a funny story.) But if you allocate that over the 6 extra hours I was imprisoned at the airport it works out to $1.67 an hour. Now I know what the kids in sweat shops feel like and I didn't even have to make any shoes. Thanks for the life lesson American Airlines. But can you do me a favor? Instead of teaching me invaluable lessons or giving me experiences that I will look back one day and laugh at, how about you just get your flights off on time.

Are you kidding slow driver in the left hand lane?

NOTE: This was written by someone other than myself. Apparently people besides me get pissed off at stupid things. Who knew? If something pisses you off and you want to see it on here email areyoukiddingnyc@gmail.com

So I was driving back home from school on the freeway expecting a smooth ride. But instead I'm stuck behind you. Are you kidding me slow drivers in the left hand lane? 55 mph. Really? You're like a kidney stone when I'm trying to pee. I know you aren't a sixteen year old student driver anymore, I can see your handicap tag hanging from your mirror as I angrily stare at the back of your 1995 Volkswagen Passat. (Maybe it's time for an upgrade.) But I assume that over the last fifty years or so you would have perhaps noticed that slower traffic goes into the right or middle lane. This isn't some new rule like not looking at internet porn on work computers. Just move over. It's not that hard. You would think the flurry of cars whizzing past you would have been a sign. "Just go around me. I'm not hurting anyone" you say? But the fact of the matter is you are disrupting my drive, and that slow driver in the left hand lane hurts. Besides if I felt like passing someone on the right I'll go for a jog on the indoor track and run past the fat people doing their weekly half-mile. (Sure the half mile helps. But not eating a box of Thin Mints in a single sitting might help too. I know they're good. But a whole box?) And what about when you're driving slow in your white Crown Victoria? In case you haven't noticed, your car perfectly resembles a police cruiser. I see the back of your car and slow down. No, it's not funny. I'm going to drive around your block playing the ice cream man song, so every time you run outside and get disappointed you know how I feel. So thank you slow driver in the left hand lane, you and the constant need to pee every time I just passed an exit, ruined my drive home.

Are you kidding Princess Toadstool?

If a guy goes through the trouble of traveling (let alone rescuing) to see a girl he's romantically interested in, that girl should probably reward him with gifts. Gifts can entail money, or things you can buy, or things you can't buy that I'm not at liberty to discuss. (If I did and you were reading it at work or your mom saw, you would either be fired or embarrassed, respectively. Get the picture?) But if said guy gets sucked down a sewer pipe with his brother, ends up in another world, travels through eight levels of enemies attacking him, which include underground and water worlds, goes through the hell of seven wrong castles, and fights eight monsters to rescue his romantic interest, one would expect the reward to be pretty hefty. (No, you cheat. Warp zones don't count. Shame on you. Thinking of playing your magic flute during a discussion like this. Disgusting!) But when Mario rescues you all he gets is a kiss? Are you kidding Princess Toadstool? Mario busts his tail to save you (literally in Super Mario Brothers 3) and you show no gratitude. Most girls would throw themselves at their hero, but you sit in your ivory mushroom tower, looking down on everyone, acting like you're better than that. But you're not better, are you Peach? (By the way. If you're going to change your name, why to a fuzzy fruit?) Although you might have above average jumping powers, you're terrible as a kart driver. So much as a graze from Bowser or Donkey Kong and you spin out of control. But the worst trait you have Princess Toadstool, is that you are a home wrecking cheat. What if player 2 saves you before player 1? You give Luigi the same kiss you give Mario. Forget about just cheating on Mario. You cheat on him with his brother? I would tell you that the three of you are a Maury episode waiting to happen, but those usually involve finding out who the father is. And as far as we know, you don't partake in activities that result in offspring, and therein lies the problem. All I can do is hope, Princess Toadstool, that you come to your senses and give Mario the reward he deserves. Or else one of these Nintendo games Mario isn't going to rescue you, and Bowser is going to take you places I can guarantee you will wish you had never been too.

Are you kidding GUTS winner?

I love cable television. There I said it. It's relaxing to watch, I love my DVR, and as soon as they come out with the next cool thing to do with t.v. I'll probably buy and love that too. I will sacrifice an hour or two of sleep to watch my favorite show. Some may disagree with this practice but finding out from someone what happened on your favorite program is probably one of the worst things you can hear from someone (except when on a road trip the person sitting shot gun tells you not to stop anymore. You don't have to ask why because when you look over you see that his crotch, along with your seat, is soaking wet. That's probably worse) And this wasn't a gradual thing either. I grew up loving t.v., and one of my favorite shows to watch was GUTS (do you have them? And I shouldn't have to explain to you the premise of the show. You should know.) Watching the three kids compete at the various events I always told myself that I could do it better; that if I was on the show there was no doubt in my mind that I would take home the piece of the Agro Crag and all of the glory that came along with it. But for some reason or another I never made it to the Guts Arena at Nickelodeon Studios, so I never got the chance. But from 1992 to 1995 there had to be hundreds of winners of the glorious rock. But where are they? Are you kidding GUTS winner? How selfish are you? You hold one of the greatest trophies that could be obtained by a young teen in the early 1990's and yet all of you remain in hiding. I don't want you to sell the piece of Crag (Because I know you won't. Ebay and Craig's List have repeatedly told me so.) I just want to see it in person, maybe take a picture with it. But none of you offer any of us non-GUTS winners the chance. Let's go to Moe for the official results. "Thanks Mike, coming in First place is John "the Douche" Doe in Red for 900 points." I also find it kind of funny that all of you ended up alright in life. Not one first place GUTS winner was driven to sell their piece of the Crag for sex or drugs? What are the chances? Looks like all those statistics they told me in high school health class were bullshit. So if any of of you GUTS winner Agro Crag owners happen to read this, is it too much to ask of you to spill your GUTS?

Are you kidding 3rd floor elevator rider?

Instead of doing my dry cleaning on a perpetual basis I let it pile up behind my bedroom door and take it to be cleaned about every month or two. The whole process is fine except when I have to take the clean clothes back up to my apartment. I usually have to carry the entire load at once, and the metal hangers dig into my hand. But if I'm lucky, I find an empty elevator and the ride goes straight to the 13th floor. This past week I was embarking on the journey back up to my apartment and the door was almost shutting on an empty elevator until you got in. You apologized when you saw me, so I didn't really mind. Until you hit the 3 button. Are you kidding 3rd floor elevator rider? What's wrong with you? You obviously aren't crippled because you walked your dumb ass from the front door into the elevator. And I'm guessing you could use the exercise. I could understand if you were carrying something heavy or had just gone to the grocery store, but all you had with you was that stupid grin across your face. How lazy are you? Even small dogs take the stairs when they can't get into a bed. And the worst part about it is you know what you're doing. You know you live on the third floor. You know you should take the stairs. And yet here you are standing in the elevator. Don't you feel any guilt? You do the same thing every time you walk into the building, and every time you get in that elevator and press that button every other person in there is swearing at you in their head, hoping that you get a glance of the pissed off look they are giving to the back of your head. (By the way the 4th floor is the cut off for people to take the elevator.) Maybe you should switch it up a bit. I know it's a difficult thing to do. But take a look at Doug Funny. At the beginning of every episode he did the exact same thing for four seasons. But eventually he switched up his opening credit routine and now he's a better person because of it. (Sure he switched it when ABC bought the show to put it on One Saturday Morning but that's besides the point.) Be like Doug 3rd floor elevator rider. Take the stairs.

Are you kidding person who puts single ply toilet paper in their bathroom?

There are very few places in this world where I can sit down and not be bothered. Where no one is going to interrupt me. Where I can just grab some quality me time. Sometimes I choose to go there and sometimes it chooses me. And although the latter isn't always pleasant, and is the main reason why when I go to restaurants that give out matches I grab a handful resembling a fat kid's in a candy jar, there are very few things that bother me when I sit down to 'take care of business'. Except one. Are you kidding person who puts single ply toilet paper in their bathroom? If anyone ever asks me if I want to know what it feels like to ride down a banister made of tree bark and sand paper naked, I'll kindly tell them no thank you. I already know. They'll inevitably ask me how and I'll reply that I had the Moo Moo Mr. Cow from Moe's for lunch (Best deal in the place by the way. Small Burrito. Drink. Chips. AND A COOKIE. For about $5. How can you beat that?) and your bathroom was the closest, approximately30 to 45 minutes after I finished eating. And don't argue that it's cheaper or is better for the environment. There are some things you don't cheap out on and the extra ply in my toilet paper is pretty close to the top of the list. Plus the fact if I am using your bathroom chances are you're a pretty big corporation and can afford the extra money that it would cost to by some Charmin. (I know you the reader are thinking, "What about when you are at a friend's place who stocks singly ply?". Simple answer. I am not friends with people who stock single ply.) And if it comes between a tree and my wiping comfort. I'll take my comfort every time. Sorry Earth. Single ply toilet paper is a job half done. Just think if everyone took the approach you take when it comes to toilet paper. What would have happened when Kevin McCallister was preparing for the Sticky Bandits in Home Alone 2? (Not the Wet Bandits. That was in the first one. Get your head in the game.) The happy ending in Rockefeller Plaza never would have happened and the holiday season of 1992 would have been ruined all because you were too frugal to buy a quality of toilet paper better than singly ply.

Are you kidding iTunes?

For some music lovers every Tuesday is like Christmas/Hannukah/Your Birthday. There sitting under the Christmas tree that is "Free on iTunes" is an endless possibility of potential music that Apple can decide to give me. But recently, every Tuesday instead of getting a "Red Ryder BB Gun" of a song (if you don't get that reference you either don't celebrate Christmas, don't own a VCR, or have spent every evening of December 24th and day of the 25th in a way that I probably don't want to know about) I've gotten the equivalent of gift wrapped crap. Are you kidding iTunes? When I click on the Free Song every Tuesday I expect to hear something I at least can tolerate. And yet when I listen to the preview of the song that you're so excited for me to download, you violate my eardrum so terribly that it needs to go take a cold shower to wash away the shame that you have bestowed upon it. They make Lifetime movies about what you've done to my ear, and yet you continue to gift me terrible music. No means no iTunes. What makes you think I want to hear a "French vocal legend" or some blues singer that makes me want to cut myself, because that pain would be better in comparison. And it's not like Apple doesn't have staff that has the ability to pick good music. After I've heard the majority of your commercials, I've gone to your store and bought the song. But that just proves the point that you iTunes, are a gateway drug. Parents warn children that drinking and smoking can lead to harder drugs if they're not careful, and yet they let those same children click on the iTunes store page without warning. In a situation like this iTunes take a page from Michael Jackson's book. It was he who sang the powerful words "Think about the generations and to say we want to make it a better world for our children and our children's children" in Heal the Wolrd. Because if anyone knows about taking care of children iTunes, it's MJ.

Are you kidding driver of a smelly cab?

Oh I'm sorry. When I pay for a good or service there is an understood agreement between me, the buyer, and you, the provider of said goods or services. When I give you my hard earned money I expect to leave the purchasing experience satisfied. So why are you surprised that when I open up the door to your cab and get smacked in the face with one of the worst oders I've ever smelled I'm a little pissed off. Are you kidding driver of a smelly cab? If I wanted to smell a copious amount of onion/used gym sock/weird spices, I would have gone running and then sniffed my spiced onion stuffed socks for 10 minutes while being driven up town. But oddly enough that usually isn't the case when it's raining/I'm running late/any other reason I have for taking a cab. Instead, I have to drive down Park Ave where the only cars with heads out their windows are your cab and the people driving with their dogs. And don't think I don't see you giving me weird looks through the rear view mirror. I do. And I also know that when you repeatedly talk on your phone, glance back at me, start laughing and start talking on your phone again, that you are talking about me. Because let's be honest. Everyone who can speak a language besides English basically gets a free pass to talk about people right in front of them. (At least that's what I would do.) But the best part is you look surprised/disappointed/pissed when I don't leave you a good tip. If you were at a fine restaurant and every time the waiter was leaving your table, he turned and his ass was in front of your face, and he farted would you leave him a tip? I didn't think so. Maybe you should take the dollar that I did leave you and go buy one of those hanging pine trees, a bottle of Febreeze, or a can of gasoline and a match? Why the last one you ask. Because if my job was to drive around in a car that smelled like that, I'd sure as hell burn it.

Are you kidding foreign family on my flight home?

Some of you may have heard this story before, but I flew yesterday and the terror that happened to me on this one particular flight still haunts me to this day.

I was flying home from a training and I was excited because I caught the earlier flight home. (No it wasn't from San Diego and no naked people popped out of my bathroom like a magic show) When I boarded and went to my seat there was already someone occupying the chair. I was fine and calm about it, but the man in my seat was speaking a language I didn't understand and it was difficult to communicate with him. When I tried to tell him that the he was in my seat, he just pointed to the middle seat in the row behind me and said that I could sit there. I said I didn't care where his seat was, I needed to sit in the aisle, and the isle seat he was in was mine. So the man nodded and unbuckled his belt like he was going to move. But instead of moving back to his seat he decided to move over one seat and fit him, his wife, and their eight year old son in the two other seats in the row. I thought that it was a little strange, and they kept on giving me dirty/weird looks, but I tried to ignore them. Once we took off I tried falling asleep but I worked it out in my head that as soon as I shut my eyes he was going to kill me. Needless to say I couldn't sleep even though I was dead tired. I then pulled out my laptop to watch The Office DVD, because if anyone could help a situation like this it was Dwight Schrute. About half way through the Valentine's Day episode (great episode by the way) the kid started throwing Sun Chips at my computer. Now I'm a big fan of whole grain snacks, just not when they're across my keyboard. After I shoot the dad my best "what the hell" look, instead of apologizing, the dad just reaches over and removes the chips like nothing happens. After snack time was over, the kid decides to lay across his parents lap so that his feet were next to my leg. And then the kicking started. The little bastard was constantly kicking my leg for a good 20 min. After I shot the dad the tenth "what the fu*k" glare (I upgraded because I was starting to get pissed) he finally caught on. He turned the kid to sit upright . When he did he started kicking the seat in front of him so much that the lady in front of us turns around and starts screaming at them, and I haven't heard someone scream like that after a kick since Ray Finkel's "kick heard round the world" in Ace Ventura. After that things settled down for a good 10/15 minutes and I thought that it was all over. Oh how I was mistaken. The little boy, who reminded me Mowgli from the Jungle Book, decided that he needed to go to the bathroom. But instead of waiting, he decided the time was right to drop his pants right there in the aisle. So now sitting in the row are me, the two parents, and the half naked eight year old. I tried to ignore it but I was getting yelled at by the dad because my computer was in Mowgli's way to the aisle. Once I get up the half naked boy runs down the aisle of the plane. At this point I call for the flight attendant who sees how pissed I am, and the half naked boy running up and down the aisle, and tells me that she'll go get some club soda. Club soda? Why would I need club soda? Because the flight attendant informs me she thinks I've been peed on. So I start looking all over my pants to find the stain. Luckily my pants were not soiled, however my flying experience clearly was.

Are you kidding 6 train on the weekend?

When is waiting good? Never. Waiting for test results. Waiting in line. Waiting for the writer's strike to end. (Yeah. I'm still a little bitter about that). In fact is there a situation where waiting is fun? Tell me one for a dollar. (Send responses to fatchanceinhellyouwilleverseethatdollar@gullible .com) But in most places, when the waiting subsides the reward makes the waiting well worth it. Most places. Not New York City. Because when I am waiting for the local green line subway on Saturday or Sunday I am not greeted with relief. I am greeted with a subway car packed so full of people it's truly a miracle every time I leave the train without contracting an STD. Are you kidding 6 train on the weekend? During the week most people are working during the day and I wait no more than 10 minutes for you to stop at my station. But on the weekends, when most of New York is not working you decide to run less frequently. What's wrong with you? That would be like Trojan slowing down production around Valentine's Day, the exact opposite of supply and demand, not to mention unsafe. And once you finally do reach the stop, your doors open and shut so quickly that by the time the masses of people exit I almost have to dive through them just to make it on board. And why is it 6 train, that no matter where I stand on the platform, you always pull up so that the car I go in puts me smashed against someone who is either fat or smells like old cheese sitting in the sun too long on a hot July day? You've done so much bad things 6 train. And you know what I learned? That even though she celebrated you in her debut album, that Jennifer Lopez is full of shit.

Are you kidding person who takes forever to order Pinkberry?

There are a lot of important decisions that are made throughout life. Who to marry? What career path to take? Whether or not to tell the stranger sitting next to you on the 6 hour flight that it was you who farted and stunk up the cabin? But regardless of the decision, one that is not life altering is what your Pinkberry (popular frozen yogurt place in Manhattan) order will consist of. Yes the frozen yogurt is good. But whether you get the Captain Crunch or Fruity Pebbles hardly stands up to which hospital to go to for residency? Yet without fail, every time I go there is always someone with their nose pressed to the glass deciding which toppings to get. Are you kidding person who takes forever to order Pinkberry? It's like you're Brad and Angelina deciding what the race of your next adopted child is going to be. It's frozen yogurt and chances are it's going to taste good regardless of what you put on it. You ignore the fact that it's people like you that cause the line to be out the door. You ignore the fact that it's people like you who make standing in that line take 20 minutes. If you're this bad at Pinkberry I'd hate to see you at Baskin and Robin's. Imagine 31 flavors. You'd still be there, even as I type this. Pinkberry even has a card that outlines the toppings and flavors, created for people like you. Yet you ignore the card, acting like you're better than it. You're the type of person who didn't use the 30 lives cheat in Contra. (Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, B, A, Select, Start.) Well, I hope alien forces come and attack you in the jungle. And as they probe and torture you, you'll call out to me for help. Because you know I have defeated those same aliens multiple times. But I won't help you. No. I will turn a blind eye and laugh, because you should have decided on the medium original with Captain Crunch, Strawberries, and Chocolate Chips long before you ever stepped up to the counter.

Are you kidding incorrect revolving door user?

I've been through a lot of doors, and not metaphorically speaking. Literally, holes in the wall with a swinging cover meant as a means of entering and leaving. Sometimes they've been fancy like the kind that slide into the wall or lift up like a garage. But of all of these the best is the revolving door. It's the only type that allows its users to both enter and exit simultaneously in an organized fashion. And having been to many office buildings, I've been around in quite a few of them, most of the time without incident. So imagine my surprise when I go to use the revolving door and there is a lady in the same section as me. Are you kidding incorrect revolving door user? First, the section is maybe five square feet. I don't think you need a masters in geometry to figure out that it was meant for one person. Also, when you hold your purse up and it is digging into my back maybe that should have been a good sign that you should have waited the extra 3 seconds for the next section. The next time you go to use a public bathroom I hope someone walks in to use the same stall you are using and then hits you up side the head with their purse. And then when you give them a dirty look and inevitably scream in protest for them to leave, I hope they just giggle and smile instead of apologizing, and let's see how you like it. But the worst incorrect revolving door user was the one I encountered yesterday. Some revolving doors are not light, and it takes a good heave to get them going. So when I was going back to the office, I put my hand to its designated spot, dropped my weight and pushed. I felt a little resistance halfway through my reentry so I tried pushing a little harder;until I heard a noise, looked up, and saw this lady's body staggering sideways. After she gathered her flailing body, she had enough time before security told her that she didn't belong in the building to turn around and shoot me one of the dirtiest looks I've received in a long time. But really? Who just stops in the middle of a revolving door. You know that episode of Seinfeld where George plays real life Frogger with the Frogger video game? I'd like to let this lady play the same game. And as she was trying to get to the other side of the street through oncoming traffic, I would ask her to stop abruptly like she did in the door, just to see what happens, as a fun experiment. Then we would see who was using the revolving door the right way.

Are you kidding New York Restaurant?

You make me wait 25 minutes or longer for a table. Fine. You're a popular restaurant so I can handle that. You charge me 250% of what the food costs you. Your food is good so it doesn't bother me that much. The waiter comes to take my drink order, and brings me a diet coke. When I am midway through the meal, clearly thirsty at this point because he hasn't been back to the table since the food came, he asks me if I want another diet coke. I am so thirsty from the sodium bomb that is my meal that without hesitation I reply yes. And then the bill comes and I realize that I've just spent $11 on diet coke. That, New York Restaurant bothers me. Are you kidding? First you have the audacity to charge $3.50 for the drink, which is ridiculous in itself, and then you don't have the curtesy to fill it up again and not charge me. When Frank the Tank bonged his first beer in Old School, he yelled at Spanish to "Fill it up again!" Spanish not only filled it up again, he didn't charge him. And that was for beer, which costs way more than the carbonated water and syrup that is pop (soda for the east coast readers. And if you call it anything else hold down the alt key and hit F4 and never read this blog again. That's just stupid calling it something else. What's wrong with you?) And you might argue that he might have charged him off camera, but if he had, do you really think he would have gotten into Lambda Epsilon Omega? No he wouldn't have. It probably costs you less than 25 cents to refill my glass but you charge me anyways? If you ever came to my house, New York Restaurant, I would charge you per square of toilet paper and serve really spicy chicken and prune juice. Then you would know what it feels like when you fiscally molest your patrons for another diet coke.

Are you kidding Facebook?

Facebook. You've changed the way we keep in touch with friends, view pictures, stalk people. That's right, stalk people. Click on the profiles of friends of friends of friends until it's 2:30am and we're looking at pictures of a party attended by people we don't know at a school we've never been to. And then when we actually meet one of the people whose profile was one of the hundreds we've clicked on. We smile, say hello and act like we've never met the person before, and all the while in our heads we can name their school, what their favorite movies are, and where they went for their past 3 vacations. Don't pretend like any of us don't do it. Everyone does and it's addicting. And the last thing any of us need is stalking assistance, but you seem to think otherwise. Are you kidding Facebook? Why would you help? Your new "People you may know" feature is like putting a big bottle whiskey at an AA meeting. You put finding out which one of our friend's friends we may know, but for some reason or another aren't friends with, on a big silver platter. First you charge for sending gifts, which are nothing more than graphics, and now this. I feel like a dog, and you are Michael Vick holding a raw steak. We don't want to look, because we know that if we do we'll get abused. But we do it anyways. And you might argue Facebook that we don't have to visit your website. But we both know that is also not true. No one wants to be the fat kid when picking dodge ball teams. So the next time you want to give a handful of chips and a deck of cards to a gambling addict, at least give a warning.

Are you kidding loud grunting guy at the gym?

Physical fitness? Watch what you eat, exercise, don't smoke....it's important. And, without it we wouldn't have great infomercials for ridiculous exercise apparatuses with celebrity endorsements like Susan Summers for the the Thigh Master or Chuck Norris & Christie Brinkley for the Total Gym. (Yes, I knew those off the top of my head. No, I am not embarrassed, I just watch a lot of t.v.) But it's safe to say that instead of making 4 easy payments of $52.99, most people join a gym. And gyms are great. They have all the equipment and services that anyone would need to fulfill their wildest fitness dreams. But what gym's don't need is the bonus soundtrack. Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Are you kidding loud grunting guy at the gym? Everyone knows you are there. It's kind of hard not to notice an old guy wearing a two-sizes-too-small-cutoff t-shirt who obviously has more chemicals running through him than the major leagues. Why do you feel it necessary to further announce your presence by grunting? You make it sound like Edwin Starr's "War" is playing on repeat. I get it. The weights are heavy. But are they heavier than the entire Junior Team USA? You see, loud grunting guy at the gym, Coach Gordon Bombay lifted the entire team to win the Junior Goodwill Games. And not once during D2: The Mighty Ducks did he grunt. I think the weights you are lifting weigh a little less than Goldberg and the Bash Brothers, let alone the rest of the team. So the next time you want to loudly grunt at the gym, think of the knuckle puck and keep your damn mouth shut.

Are you kidding bathroom attendant?

I can go to the bar. I can order my own drink. And surprisingly enough, I can even consume that drink all by myself. So what makes you think that I can't turn on my own water or grab my own towel, bathroom attendant? Yes, I know you are there as a service. But no, I don't want any. I don't want you to grab my towel; I don't want your candy; and I sure as hell don't want to give you a dollar. Call me cheap but does pumping soap into my hand hold the same value as the items found on the greatness that is the Wendy's 99 cent menu? The next time I frequent the squared hamburger joint and order a JBC (That's a junior bacon cheese burger, and shame on you for not knowing!) and a 5 piece, when the cashier holds her hand out for the $1.98 I'll just whip out my bottle of Dial, give her two pumps and a paper towel and tell her we'll call it even. But for some reason that probably wouldn't go over too well bathroom attendant. And like I always say, "If it's not good enough for Dave Thomas (may he rest in peace) then it's not good enough for me." (Actually, that's the first time I've ever said that, but it's besides the point.) And, why do you sometimes feel the need to play music? Although there is a small possibility I might enjoy the 99 cent bargain bin music that I haven't heard before coming from your top of the line 1988 duct tape held together boom box, there's a greater chance that I won't. So let's just call a truce bathroom attendant. The next time I pass your cologne and candy lined sink, I'll get my own soap and you'll leave me the hell alone.

Are you kidding New York City walking morning commuter?

It's raining. I get it. No one likes walking in the rain. But did it occur to you New York City walking morning commuter that everyone else on the sidewalk wants to get to their destination as much as you do? Then why is it that when water falls from the sky you all of the sudden don't know how to get from your apartment/the train station/the person's apartment whose name you don't know because you had one too many drinks last night to where are you going. You stop abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk as if no one is going to be behind you. Guess what? There are 11 million people in the tri-state area, 3 of which are on the island of Manhattan. Chances are there is going to be someone behind you. And when there is more then 2 people across the side walk you hold your umbrella at such weird angles that it either offers you no shelter from the rain or the chances of you poking someone are like the chances of the Save By the Bell gang solving their ridiculous problem by the end of the episode, pretty damn good. (Which always made me wonder how a group of teenagers could solve an addiction problem in 30 min, excluding commercial time.) NYC walking morning commuter just because it's raining doesn't mean you have to lose all sidewalk sensibility. Its like you are a Chia pet, but when you get wet instead of growing sprouts for hair you just grow stupid. I expect more from you next time it rains in the morning. You're better than that.

Are you kidding elephant protesters?

Yes I've seen Dumbo. Yes I was happy at the end when he learned how to fly and the racially depicted crows sang him off as the screen went dark. But that was when I was 5, and I was on my way to nap time, not lunch. So I sort of understand where you are coming from elephant protesters, as you stand in a large herd taking up most of the sidewalk on 7th Ave standing in my way as I walk to grab a sandwich. I understand that you are upset that two baby elephants died while in the care of the circus and you want the public to know about it. But if you are being completely objective, and as you carry the signs picturing the dead baby elephants I'll assume you are, why aren't you protesting Animal Planet, Discovery, or better yet, lions? Don't you have cable elephant protesters? There has been a countless number of times that I've turned on the television to see a lion attacking and eating a baby elephant alive. I find it hard to believe that after a hard day's work in the tiny car, the clowns gather around and dig into a fresh slice of live baby elephant. And although the lion diet comes in other varieties besides infant elephant de jour, I find it hard to believe that the entire lion population was sustained on 2 baby elephants or less. So before you go and fight to bring down the circus industry elephant protesters, I think you need to take a good look at who the real enemy is.

Are you kidding NCAA selection committee?

Woo Hoo! March Madness! Everyone get excited. Fill out your brackets and maybe you can guess who will go all the way for a couple hundred bucks and bragging rights. Naturally, I would have Ohio State going to at least the final four, but I think there's a problem with espn.com, cbs.sportsline.com, and even si.com. Every bracket I go to download and fill out seems to be missing the Buckeyes. And it makes me feel like Ashley Dupré looking in on a "classy girls only" party, left out and empty. I don't know about the rest of you, but when big NCAA events like fall football and march madness don't have Ohio State as a contender, let alone a participant, I just don't get as excited as I would otherwise. Admittedly I didn't watch this Basketball season as closely as I could have, but there is always a part of me that feels like Ohio State participation is a given. But when it doesn't happen March madness isn't quite so mad. So yeah, there's a cool club in March made up of 64 schools and it sucks that the Buckeyes aren't one of them. But hey, there's always fencing.