>>> Casual Misanthropy
By staff writer JD Rebello
December 17, 2004

So yeah, my column usually comes out on Sunday, God's day, but here's the thing: I had the worst sore throat on Saturday. And since I was popping Tylenol Colds, Halls Menthalyptus, and Harpoon UFO's simultaneously, Sunday wasn't much brighter. I spent the day hocking Kermit the Frog's diarrhea into my trash. (Because phlegm is green, and because now you have the image of Kermit taking a mean dump. Good.) So I was sick all day Sunday, and the Patriots had a big game against the Bungles, and my fingers hurt from constantly clicking refresh on the ESPN.com page because apparently the Red Sox are trading the whole team away for fat old ex-Yankees. Before I knew it, it was 6 p.m. and I didn't have a column. So, yeah, sorry. But hey, better late than never, right? And besides, it gives me a nice little gimmick to kick off this (short) week's festivities.

I am always late. Always.

I don't know how this happens. I try to be early. I really do. Often, I make a conscious effort to be on time, but God hates me (probably because I kick midgets). So the other day, I'm getting ready for work. I leave for the train at 5:45. I shave at 5:15. Comb my hair at 5:20. Iron at 5:27. (Ironing being the primary reason why I need a girlfriend. Please help.) That gives me roughly 15 minutes to chill and then leave. So I was chilling. 5:44 rolls around. I'm about to leave. Literally a foot out the door. Shit. I can't find my cell phone. (This is ironic because I traded away my last cell for a bigger one so I'd never lose it. I never lost my old one. I lose this one every fuck day.) So I spend 10 minutes looking for my cell. I find it, of course in the middle of my desk in plain sight. I get ready to leave again. Literally both feet out the door. Shit. I can't find my work ID. I traipse around my apartment looking for another 5 minutes. It's in my backpack, which I take to work anyway. I get ready to leave again. Literally three feet out the door. My roommate stops me. “Hey, you owe me for the cable bill.” That becomes a 5 minute conversation about baseball and my daily adventures with Bobo, my imaginary friend.

“I'm fucking sick of everything bagels—typical woman order, and if you don't know why, you're either a woman, or you're gay.”


I get to the train station. Of course I miss the T because the fat hoebag takes her sweet time counting every cent and talking with her friend Shenene who has fingernails longer than my large intestine. Then there's Chinatown. At the risk of sounding racist, I am sick to death of Asian people. Asian Americans are cool, but the hardcore Asians who live in Chinatowns really upset me. First of all, the Chinese-Japanese-Mandarin language is stupid. With their Ching Pow garbage. Second, learn to fucking walk. They all do this sideways shuffle shit, like video clips you see of hordes of them in Tokyo when Godzilla's on the loose. They don't look where they are going, they bump into me constantly, and since none of them crack the five foot barrier I'm terrified of stepping on one.

So of course, all the Chinatown imbeciles take a Japanese hour to get on board the T, which is complicated with its “doors open, step on” policy. I show up to work at 6:38 p.m., 8 minutes late, as boss after boss stares me down, not accepting the “goddamn Asians” as an excuse. Again, I'm not racist, Asian people just upset me, like Republicans. Just relax.

So I'm always always late. And it's not my fault. Because I always try to be early. But I'm stupid sometimes. My exam will be in 10 minutes. That gives me time to get a cup of coffee. But that Rolling Hills bootleg campus coffee won't do the trick. I've got to look for a Dunkin Donuts, which is a 10 minute walk. I can assume that if I walk fast, which I do anyway because I'm not a gangsta and I'm not trying to intimidate white women with my slow approach and Avirex everything, I can make it to D&D and back in no time. Wrong. WRONG. Of course, everyone and their mother is at the Dunk, and not just ordering coffee, oh no, those crazy sandwiches they make which are simply variations of other sandwiches, or everything bagels. I'm fucking sick of everything bagels—typical woman order, and if you don't know why, you're either a woman, or you're gay. I finally get my coffee. I'm 4 minutes late. Shit. I run back, figuring what the hell, it's only 4 minutes late. Then I remember, I planned to study in the 10 minutes before the exam that I gave myself. Shit.

I had a date. It's at 7 p.m. I leave time to shower (10 minutes), shave (4 minutes), hair (6 minutes), masturbate (4-11 minutes) 31 minutes at the most. It's 6. Gives me time to work up my confidence, get all the pre-pubescent voice-cracking out of my system now, make up a list of shit to talk about with her that doesn't include that greedy scumbag Pedro and why my left testicle could beat my right one in a fight. I do all that. 6:45. I'm early. I grab the flowers. I spray on the cologne. I'm set. I'm money.

I walk to the girl's house. I knock on the door, 4 minutes early, looking and smelling great. Somebody answers the door. I say I'm here to pick up the girl for our date and I'm EARLY! She says we never had a date, she doesn't even know me, stop sending her Facebook friendship requests, stop blowing kisses at me from afar, stop checking her SubProfile every 5.7 seconds, stop calling her phone, not saying anything but just breathing heavily, and stop showing up early for dates that don't exist.

How embarrassing. But at least I was on time for once. I gotta go. Sorry I was late.

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