Gladstone
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A few weeks ago I wrote an article about people I'd like to murder for doing seemingly minor things. Specifically, seven kinds of people, which is the largest number I've ever had in a Cracked list. I think that speaks volumes about my mental stability and capacity for forgiveness. Even more impressive? I left six people out. I now present six more folks I'd like to murder for committing minor, but apparently completely unforgivable, offenses in everyday life.
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I didn't read all the comments in the original article (
Geekgirlsrule.net
OK, cool. You're off the sidewalk and into the street. Now just hold it. Hold it. No, I don't hear a truck coming ...
I can hear some of you asking, "Why don't you just cross the street if it bothers you so much?" to which I reply, "Why don't you and your three fat friends cross the street? You're the ones who suck." I know. I have a gift for rhetoric. And now the death.
This was almost too easy to concoct. The offenders are placed in an enclosed hallway and chased by the chupacabra monster. (If chupacabra is unavailable, pit bulls will do.) With only one way to go, the offenders run from chupacabra (or pit bulls) until they hit a group of three heavily-padded walkers, impossible to pass. As the chupacabra/dogs close in, and after the offenders shriek with cries for forgiveness, a wall goes up to hold back the chupacabra/pit bulls (but seriously, let's try to go for chupacabra). Then the padded walkers punch the offenders in the back of the head and curb-stomp them to death.
subversiveelement.com
Actually, maybe we do need the pit bulls.
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Hey, you know that thing that people do called "going to the store and buying stuff with money?" Of course you do. We all do it. Quick question though: Why do so many people do it wrong? Here's how it's supposed to work: You hand your stuff to a cashier; the cashier tells you how much it costs; you give your money to the cashier; and if you give more than the item(s) cost, you get back change. That's it.
Here's what doesn't happen: You don't take out your dollars and coins and lay them down on the counter for the cashier to pick up. Why? Well, for one, why would you do that? Are you really asking? But if you need a better reason, how about it takes more time for you and everyone else in line. Or how about, it's just rude. Maybe you don't mean it, but that gesture implies the cashier is at a lower station. An untouchable. Someone you can't make contact with even indirectly. Think I'm overreacting? Putting money on the counter and waiting for the cashier to take it was actually a practice in the segregated South. Yeah, that's right. I can't find a link to validate that statement, but I saw it in a movie once and wrote it on the Internet so it must be true and now you're Internet Hitler. How's that make you feel? But seriously, it's time-consuming and rude. Just cut it out.
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If you put your money on the counter, then this is not a picture of Hitler; it's a magic tiny mirror on your computer screen.
Important Exception: Some cashiers (of every race, color and creed) suck. They don't look at you or pay attention. Or sometimes they go off talking to their buddies while you're trying to pay. The Gladstone exception allows you to put money on the counter if you've gotten it out and the cashier is ignoring you so you don't have to stand there like a jackass with cash in your hand.
Place offenders in an uncomfortably hot room containing only a counter, a register, a clear refrigerator filled with bottled waters and a bell next to a "ring for service" sign. Wait until the offender grows sufficiently uncomfortable and rings the bell. At that point, a cashier comes in and offers the offender a bottled water for $1.50. If the offender puts his money on the counter, he receives a mild electrical shock. I forgot to mention the counter was electrified -- but not enough to kill. There's no need to fatally electrocute this offender. The water is poison.
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Not water.
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I've known a few people like this. They tell you a sad story, usually about someone who's died. You listen politely because you're not an ass, and then you say one of the few appropriate things you can say. You say, "I'm sorry." And then they say, "What are you sorry for? It's not your fault."
Yeah, I know. It's not my fault. It wasn't like you conveyed that story about your uncle's death so convincingly that suddenly I thought I was the drunk driver who ran him over. I'm not apologizing. I'm not asking for your forgiveness. I'm just saying I'm sorry bad stuff happened to you. It makes me feel sorrow. For you. Get it? Maybe I should have said that whole sentence out loud to avoid this misunderstanding. I feel sorrow for you. There? Are you happy? No, I won't stop screaming. You should have thought of that before you got all pedantic on my ass when I was just trying to be nice. Stop crying. I know it's been a hard day, what with the death of your uncle and all, but still, you have to stop this annoying habit of yours. Seriously.
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If you keep crying, you wont hear me yelling at you.
I don't really have anything for this. Maybe it's because I'm just too nice a guy. That's probably it. But their uncle died, y'know, and I just feel kind of sorry. Well, no, not sorry like I did something wrong. I mean, sorry like, oh fuck, y'know what? Gunshot to the head. There. Who's sorry now?
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I remember the first time I went to little league baseball practice. It was getting near the end of the practice and I asked my coach, "After we're done hitting, should we go back out into the field or wait for our parents to pick us up?" His reply? "Yes." My reply? "Yes, to what? I asked two things." At which point he became completely flustered and said something about not knowing. This story proves two things: 1) New York had no statewide intelligence prerequisite for being entrusted with the care of small children; and 2) I'm clearly a well-adjusted individual who is completely over this minor incident.
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Coaching most likely did not cut into his time working for NASA.
But much to my surprise, this was not a one-time offense. People do this all the time and I don't understand why. It is the worst kind of non-response. You might as well reply, "Hmm, I'm not sure, but I'll tell you what -- why don't you go fuck yourself because I'm not answering your question." OK, that's probably a much worse non-response, but still, it's really annoying.
Offender is strapped to a chair and asked a series of either/or questions. Nonstop. For days. Until they starve to death and die.
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In the first article we explored the horrifying ramifications of people who don't say thank you when you hold the door open for them. I think we can all agree that was some first-rate journalism right there, and we all really learned something that day. This entry is similar. Let me set the scene. You're driving and you notice a pedestrian trying to cross the street or the parking lot or whatever. They don't have the crosswalk or the light, but their intent is clear. And because you're so awesome you let them pass. At that point the correct thing for the pedestrian to do is wave, or nod, or smile, or something to acknowledge you've done something you didn't have to do. And yet, it seems half the time I let a pedestrian cross, not only do I not receive any form of acknowledgment, but the pedestrian then saunters across the road like they're king of the blacktop, suddenly no longer in a hurry to reach the other side. I know when drivers let me cross as a pedestrian I do this little shuffle thing where I nod acknowledgment and set about earnestly on my road-crossing task. Is that too much to ask?
Unlike the other deaths on this list in which the offender is captured and brought to some facility of my imagination, this retribution punishment is accomplished by a governmental decree of amnesty. All drivers are free to run over rude pedestrians without fear of prosecution. Now some of you might say that's not feasible. That this is the talk of a madman. I say ... did you really wait until this entry to lodge that complaint?
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I wanted a picture of an angry driver to prove the point, but apparently we only have photos of the worst actress ever. (And she's got something in her eye.)
When I was a lad, I heard about this Kevin Costner movie called
And yet, there are still babies going around getting pissed off at people who ruin things from like three years ago or more. I shouldn't do this because frankly it defeats the whole point of my article, but I'm about to spoil some old news, so (sigh) spoiler alert. Really old spoilers coming right after the picture of spoiled milk. You can jump to the picture of the crying baby to know it's safe to come out, you wuss. Just know that in between these two pics I'm totally talking about the time I nailed your mom.
SPOILER ALERT. Season 2 of
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Look, I'd be the first to concoct some sadistic punishment for people who spoil things days, weeks, even month's or years after they come out, but there comes a point where you have to grow up and stop expecting the world to bend its conversations to your inability to download stuff off the Internet.
The offender is placed in a room with a large scalpel. The ending of every single thing that has ever existed is announced over a speaker until the offender loses the will to live and ends his own life. As he is bleeding out, the last thing he hears is, "Spoiler alert. We're totally dressing up your corpse in a silly outfit when you're dead."
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For more from Gladstone, check out Imagine No Frivolous Lawsuits and Rachel Bilson Destroys My Delusion And Lies About It Badly.
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