I don't understand...

... why you think a pony tail is acceptable for someone at your age (that age being over twelve).

The only pony tails I will tolerate are from people I actually believe to have been at Woodstock (and BELIEVE me unless you live in Haight & Ashbury the chances of that are slimmer than the MacBook Air).

Did you look in the mirror on your 30th birthday and think "OMG - my hairline is receding - there's only one thing to do - compensate for this tragic loss by growing a pony tail.  It's young, it's hip - I mean Fabio's got long hair so why shouldn't I?  The chicks dig Fabio so it only stands to reason they'll dig this!"

Don't you realize EVERYONE is thinking what I'm typing?  Do yourself a favour: cut that ridiculous thing off, dip it in varnish and mount it on a board like a prized trophy.

At least then when you tell people what it is, they'll be laughing at you rather than behind your back.  Then and ONLY then will you be able to fully understand how truly TRAGIC that greasy, stringy thing is.

... why you've added me to your email distribution list in order to send me annoying, impersonal emails about YOUR state of affairs.

It's happened to all of us.  You check your mailbox around the holidays and receive the dreaded group letter from some half-baked acquaintance that "sums up the year" for the entire family.  It usually starts with some sort of half-hearted apology about how they didn't have time for individual letters TO EVERYONE THEY KNOW, so they had to resort to the 3 to 5 pages they've managed to cram in the envelope addressed to you.  Of course, the envelope is addressed using pre-printed labels, because who could possibly have the time to hand-write the addresses on all of these envelopes?!?

Exacerbating the absurdity of the situation, this snail mail equivalent of SPAM is usually filled with flowery bouquets of sunshine - one devoted to each child, the husband - "Jim's love of his new job" and the letter writer - "my love of some lame-ass hobby or volunteering effort du jour"

Listen Pollyanna, you and I both know that this letter is only masking the REAL story - which usually tracks along the following lines:

• Your husband got laid off from his previous job, because he's a deadbeat - so OF COURSE he's going to LOVE HIS NEW JOB.  He spends most of his time surfing porn on the Internet or spending time out in the garage which he's deemed his "private space".
• You've resorted to volunteering and hobbies to compensate for the fact that you're a frigid bitch who hasn't deigned to have sex with your husband in OVER 5 YEARS.  And of course, you now both sleep in separate rooms.
• Your kids spend most of their time playing video games, texting their friends and listening to music on their iPods - anything that will drone out your annoying voice and the sheer boredom of their mundane existence.

As terrifying as these types of letters are, I've just experienced something FAR WORSE - THE E-MAIL EQUIVALENT OF THE GROUP FORM LETTER. 

The email had a subject line of "DIAGNOSIS" and went downhill from there.  (I was thinking about just deleting it, but I felt compelled to open it - kind of like rubber-necking at an accident scene - it's unavoidable.)

The letter explained that this person wanted to make sure everyone knew and understood his latest medical problem, how it was detected and of course what the treatment for said affliction would be.

What the hell?!?  What kind of person decides to blind carbon copy a group of people about their medical problems?  I'll tell you who... Someone who is so SELF-ABSORBED that they assume anyone else outside of their immediate family and the people they pay to be their friends WOULD GIVE A CRAP.  Well, I have to break it to you, buddy.  NO ONE DOES.

Since I didn't recall signing up for these "medical alerts", I did what any Internet-savvy consumer would do. 

I promptly replied to the email, deleted all of the text and typed in all CAPS

UNSUBSCRIBE

... why people think that wearing vanity t-shirts is funny and makes them "hip".

Ok, I get it.  The first "I'm With Stupid" t-shirt was probably a scream - BACK IN THE 1970s.  Since then, you can't walk down a public street without being bombarded with one or more vanity t-shirts with one "pithy" statement after another. 

Here's a small sample of what I've had to endure this week.

"I give my family two options for dinner - TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT!"
(Judging from the size of you AND your family, I suspect that the LEAVE IT option is routinely picked and you all head out the door to McDonalds, fat ass)

"World's #1 Dad"
(Hmm. Kid #4 doesn't LOOK like you OR your wife at all... Get a PATERNITY TEST STAT, Daddy!)

"Does this shirt make me look bald?"
(No, but it does make you look like an idiot.)

"I'm Sofa King Awesome"
(Where to begin with this one?)

Do us ALL a favour people, wear this crap in the privacy of your own home.  You can still stop in front of the many mirrors you undoubtedly have placed around your home and congratulate yourself on how clever you are - while at the same time thinking reassuring thoughts that these poly-blend monstrosities DO have a rightful place in your wardrobe!

... why fancy restaurants utilize the "hostess by commitee rule".

Why is it when you walk into a fancy restaurant that I need to be immediately greeted by a gaggle of hostesses - each wearing "couture" that would make you think they just shopped at a Project Runway cast-offs sale?

This "hostess by committee" setup is the epitome of poor service in action - and was probably concocted by some "business process" moron who has never actually owned a restaurant and thinks that fine food involves the early-bird special at Suisse Chalet.

Picture this.  The "Head Hostess" is constantly scanning the list or chart of tables - as though it was the Rosetta Stone - acting like she's performing an exotic set of combinatorial calculations to figure out where patrons should be seated.  Let me give you a tip Brainiac, people like to be seated at a table that is EMPTY and CLEAN.  PERIOD!

This situation is only exacerbated but the "Junior Hostesses" who (in addition to hoping one day for a promotion) are constantly clamoring about, straightening menus, providing "key advice" to the Head Hostess and pulling wait times out of their asses.

In my latest experience, I heard 3 different hostesses tell prospective patrons wait times that were over 15 minutes apart in duration.  Now there's GREAT public service!!

Listen Princesses.  The art of hostessing isn't rocket science and no one appreciates you more than you could possibly appreciate yourself.  So, step off the power train, stop acting like fashionistas and SEAT ME AT MY GOD DAMNED TABLE. No one cares what you look like, how fast you sort menus and how quickly you can erase the white board to indicate that a table is available. 

And don't even get me started on restaurants that ask if you have a reservation when the ENTIRE PLACE IS EMPTY!

... why you feel the need to talk to me merely because I had the misfortune of sitting next to you on this flight.

Did you not see me pretend to read a magazine so you wouldn't engage me in conversation?  Or was the fact that I turned my headphones up full volume to drown you out still not a clue? 

I mean honestly - I was watching Glitter - that Mariah Carey masterwork! After that - thanks to you - I had to go home and throw acid in my eyes to attempt to erase those memories. Did my monosyllabic grunts and earnest look of disinterest as I peered over my glasses still not assist you in recognizing my need to drop a carnivorous beetle in my ear?

Do you not know that every comedian in the world has been making fun of you pretty much since the dawn of commercial flights?  You're annoying. SHUT UP!!! 

Even the staff are looking at me with a look of "Oh honey, if there was any room in first class we would bump you." But they can't, so they were forced to give me free drinks to try and numb the recurring anecdotes of your tepid life of mediocrity.

PUT A CORK IN IT!  If I'm polite enough to ignore you, please be polite enough to ignore me.

… why you need to wait until the light turns green to start asking the bus driver questions.

Do you think you’re the only one that needs to get somewhere this morning?  Did you think the other 40 of us are on public transit for leisure and/or a "play-date"?  I could see why you would think that as we sat in our suits and ties, looking at our watches because we had meetings to go to and you proceeded to ask questions about how to get somewhere. 

One missed light and I’m thinking, “okay, she’s just a little lost, the driver will help her out and we’ll be done with it.” 

Two missed lights and I think you’re an IDIOT who should’ve called the place for directions before you left. 

Three missed lights and now I know you’re plain rude and self-absorbed.  Fingers-crossed that you're late for whatever appointment you have deemed important enough to keep the rest of us waitning.

... why you don't wash your hands after you just wiped your ass.

You're disgusting and should pray I never run into you in a meeting because it would require me to refuse your hand when extended. Then after everyone gasped from the indignity I would be forced to tell them why in order to protect my own honour.

You're the type of idiot who probably always wonders why your wife's food tastes like shit. Guess what?  It doesn't - it's your fingernails you disgusting piece of flesh. Do you pick your lunch out of the toilet?  Might as well moron!

... why you need to stand so close to me at the bus stop.

Let me guess, you just got a brand new Jean Naté gift set for your birthday and you decided to experiment with "layering your scent". Good news - you now know how; bad news - people are falling to the ground thinking the city is under chemical attack.

... why you think you're a rockstar.

I mean I get that you want to be a rockstar rather than going to college or working at your parents' laundr-o-mat.  However - until that time - please stop wearing the following:  white, pointy-toed, brogues; your green tighties; that over-sized scarf; and those RIDICULOUS mittens with the skull and cross-bones on them.

I can only surmise you took your student loan (or your allowance which you saved up for months along with some iCoke points) and bought those hand-warmers in June off www.emolosers.com (Don't bother clicking - it doesn't exist - and I now claim the rights to that domain name!) and couldn't wait to wear them. So today when you turned on the Weather Channel and discovered it was going to be sunny and a WHOLE 5 degrees colder than average for this time of year, you clicked your heels together and thought to yourself "YIPPEE!! I can wear my fabulous new fall outfit and I'm SURE my parents and school chums won't think I like the cock when I show up."  And that may have been true were it not for your homage to the Jonas Brothers that you wrote on your blog.

Well princess, I have some news for you:  (1) you are not a rock star; (2) you're not misunderstood; (3) you're not an emo; (4) you have no style other than what you see on Facebook; and (5) you're definitely a pillow-biter.

... why people tip for bad service.

If I get bad service I tip accordingly. Friends say "Aw c'mon the kid is just trying to earn a living.". Well try harder dammit. If you wanna make a living in the service industry, you either need to be personable, efficient or old enough that your regulars don't mind you being useless.

Otherwise you should consider dishwashing or an enterprise that doesn't rely on your memory or writing stuff down - perhaps male prostitution might be something you're better suited for.

Apparently in that industry, they'll tip you to forget WHO they are and WHAT they ordered.