If You Can't Stand the Greet...

Hi, readers. How are you doing today? Can I help you with anything? A funny post maybe?

Woah, sorry. I bet that was annoying. But I figured when in Rome, do as the Romans do.

By Rome, of course, I mean “any business establishment in America.” And by Romans I mean “the annoying customer-service types who pepper you incessantly with inane pleasantries regarding your personal well-being and potential need for help in the store.”

When did this start? And how did it get so quickly out of control?

In Blockbuster the other day, I saw a woman enter only to be greeted by a store employee, who asked if she needed any help finding what she was looking for.

Now, I know better, so I respond to these greetings with short, monosyllabic grunts whenever possible.

But, sadly, this woman foolishly replied, “I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”

Oh, you poor simple woman! Never tell them that!

I wanted to scream out, “Noooooo! Run for your life!” but it was too late. The woman was already getting a full-guided tour of the place, complete with brief reviews and suggestions on what seemed like every New Release.

Oh well, you can’t save them all.

I mean, I had to look out for numero uno, you know? It’s a pleasantries jungle out there, and if you’re not careful, you’ll get eaten alive.

Take for instance the dangerous creature known as the way-too-smiley, handshake-happy manager at my local Bank of America branch. This guy is friggin’ relentless.

Always smiling, always shaking my hand and asking me how I’m doing. As if I couldn’t survive my two minute wait for a teller to greet me. I keep meaning to see if my bank has a suggestion box (probably next to the free cookies and coffee), so I can give them a tip: “Leave me the fuck alone. I came here to deposit a check not have a fuckin rap session.”

Of course, this is why, whenever possible, I use the ATM, which stands for “Crazy People Scare Me, So I’m Not Going Inside.”

I’m waiting for the day – and I’m sure it’s coming soon – when my bank simply positions the Budweiser “whaaazzzzup” guys on one side and Matt LeBlanc, repeating “How YOU doin?” on the other to see who can make my head explode first.

All I’m asking for is a little less customer service. Please, spare me.

Hopefully, none of those greeting-happy freaks read this, or they’ll be storming the comments section like the folks from Gu-- ... well, I’m not even gonna say it. Cue angry responses in 3…2…1….

The Final Word on Guam, Finally

Well, ESPN.com elected to take down Ogle's cockfighting story, and the very same day, people come out of the woodwork for 10 more comments on the original blog post.

Can we get the fuck over this, people? Or is Congress coming to me next for an apology? Let's hope its not, because that's got as good a chance of happening as Ogle enjoying a quiet, hassle-free vacation to the South Pacific in his lifetime.

Anyway, I say let's put this all to rest. Although I am curious how all these Guamanians found this blog in the first place. Is it the through the radio guy who keeps calling Ogle "Mike Ugly?" Is it simply word of mouth? I must know.

Still, I'm not sure what I'm more curious about: how the morons calling the two of us ugly found their way here, or how they managed to log onto the internet in the first place without hurting themselves.

So let's call it a day on this non-argument that has people riled up beyond belief for no good reason.

Mail me an "I Love Guam" T-shirt and I'll wear it. But don't come here acting petty, inarticulate and, worst of all, cowardly (this means you, anonymous commenters). You're the ones making Guam look bad.

Winnie, Vidi, Vici

Oh, Winnie Cooper! We hardly knew ye! But that all changed when Winnie (a.k.a. Danica McKellar) went all slut-tastic for a Stuff Magazine photo shoot, a far cry from her days as co-star of "The Wonder Years."

I'm sorry, but when I think Winnie Cooper, I think of a sweater and a sweet smile, the blush-filled awkwardness of middle-school romance. I don't think of see-through bras and slutty boots.

At least as far as you know, I don't.

Upon further review of the Danica McKellar situation (read: looking up her bio on imdb.com), I discovered a pile of useless information fatter than that Doug kid Kevin hung out with.

First and foremost: The evil Becky Slater, arch-nemesis of Kevin Arnold and a general all-around bitch, was none other than Crystal McKellar, Danica's little sister.

No wonder Kevin seemed so tormented -- the object of his lust and the object of his scorn shared DNA in real life!

Second, apparently Danica attended UCLA, where she graduated with a BA in mathematics. And, according to the bio, she "had a 1998 paper published in Britain's 'Journal of Physics A: Mathematics & General' with UCLA professor Lincoln Chayes and student Brandy Winn which provided a mathematical proof for a theorem dealing with magnetism in two dimensions."

Take that Paul Pfeiffer!

We can also learn that Danica is fluent in French and is still pals with her old co-star, Fred Savage.

But what we can't learn is the most important lesson of all, one that Kevin Arnold should have learned back in seventh grade: When a chick as gorgeous as that Madeline girl throws herself at you, you dump Winnie and get some hottie ass.

What a butthead!

Random Conversation With a Food Lion Cashier

[Me, standing in line, attempting to purchase three (3) Totinos frozen pizzas and two (2) jars of Classico tomato sauce. Her, tall and smiley, in a sweetly goofy sort of way, with short brown hair.]

Her: So, did you get the sauce to dip the crusts in?
Me (confused): No. I'm making ravioli. That's just a coincidence.
Her: Is it meat ravioli?
Me: No. Just cheese.
[awkward silence]
Me: I mean, don't get me wrong, I like meat. It's just, you know, with ravioli, I'm a cheese guy.
Her (handing me receipt): Have a good night.

A Pair of Small Victories

In the interest of moving this Ogle nonsense farther down the page telling people about my day whether they care or not, here are a pair of small victories from this lovely swelteringly hot Monday:

1. I received a letter informing me that I am now a "Silver Elite" member of Marriott Rewards, by virtue of having stayed at 10 or more fine Marriott hotels this year.

This delighted me because:

a) one of the numbers had worn off my old non-silver rewards card, forcing me to remember what it was every time I made reservations (for the record, it was "6").

b) I love being described as two adjectives, in this case "silver" and "elite," when one will clearly suffice. I am no more elite than any other silver members of Marriott Rewards, as far as I know.

2. I made and ate ravioli for dinner, while wearing a brand-new white T-shirt, without getting any sauce on me.

This is on par, statistically, with:

a) not getting bitten even after deciding that jumping in the wolverine pit at your local zoo covered in ground beef was a good idea.

b) opening your e-mail without a single offer for "FREE_V1@gr@" or "Lonely MILFs Near You."

In other news, I love outline format.