Category Archives: awful

#64 The Karaoke Superstar

I've never wished for AutoTune.  Except for right now.

I've never wished for AutoTune. Except for right now.

As the saying goes: there’s one in every party. There’s always one person or group intent on ruining a good time. In the past, I’ve seen it in the form of police at a house party, or police at a wedding, or police at a soccer riot, or police at the bar. But at karaoke bars, it’s never police. It’s the Karaoke Superstar– that one person who looks at the beer-stained machine and microphone in the back of the bar as their window of opportunity to get discovered by a record executive.

And why wouldn’t they? It’s common knowledge that all music industry moguls spend their Tuesday nights outside their mansions, in the back booth of a sketchy Irish pub drinking $3 tall boys of Naddy Ice. The Karaoke Superstar truly believes this and uses it as a mantra for what he or she will do on Tuesday night for the rest of his or her life (for the sake of misogyny, let’s use “she” from now on).

Karaoke Superstar is the embodiment of the insecurity associated with the female gender, specifically middle school girls and all aspiring actresses. She believes that by using the esteemed principles of her grade school voice coach, she can impress that one person at Sonny McLean’s Publick Drinking House who has “contacts” to the music biz. While other folks are throwing back pints and belting out their favorite Elvis Presley or Three Dog Night song, Karaoke Superstar is sticking solely to what fits in her range, specifically LeAnn Rimes’ “Can’t Fight the Moonlight.”

For a moment like thisThe Superstar comits their acts of “kareokicide” under the dodgy pretense that she’s a good singer. And maybe she actually is alright. But instead of cutting her chops at a local live venue or at the “Dress Like Susan Boyle Night” in the Rec Center, she finds the Tuesday bar crowd less critical and easier to appease, which isn’t hard considering most of the male bar attendees looking at her imagine the microphone as their penis.

In fact, it’s quite common for K.S. to undergo a minor sexual encounter with a bar fly after he tells her he once worked in the same office as Russell Simmons, a half-truth, in that he mopped the floor 2 hours before Russell walked on it in Fat Farm sneakers. These sexual encounters can become a deadly game for Karaoke Superstar, as she’s bound to have a sore throat or oral herpes for a few weeks, both malaises causing major damage to her social life and her karaoke career (both one in the same).

If you come across Karaoke Superstar, be sure to not buy her a drink and not compliment her until she tries to sing something by Queen. There’s no way she’ll reach Freddie Mercury’s pitch, and it will be fun to see her get down on herself. It’s during this point of low self-esteem you’ll be able to go down on her. Even if she’s not into the whole cunnilingus thing, you’ll sleep nicely knowing she’s probably going to binge and purge tonight due to her un-Mercury-esque rendition of “Fat Bottom Girls”.

By Scott Glockholder
_______________
Also Known As: Fiona Crapple, American Idle, Amateur Hour, Stage Fright, Karaoke Dookie, Karaoke vs. Bukkake: The Showdown, Microphone Fiend, the Middle Child, Chris Snornell

3 Comments

Filed under annoying people, awful, chicks, entertainment, friends, music

#63 The Shitter Graffiti Artist

Picasso would be proud

Picasso would be proud

Most people think of public restrooms as a “last resort shit depository” — the filthy, regrettable step between pooping one’s pants and playing the “How Long Can I Hold It” Game. It’s a place where homeless people go to have sex and where the walls inexplicably are covered in a doody sprinkles. Simply put, it’s the worst.

But to the Shitter Graffitti Artist, this is art school. That toilet seat is a beautiful blank canvas — a brownish-yellow stained platform through which they can truly express themselves. That’s not just a plastic ass-holder, it’s a circular shrine to artistic integrity.

Sure, it’s regularly urinated on. But that doesn’t matter. Urine and feces don’t phase the SGA — the feed off of it. In fact, that toilet is surrounded on four sides by walls which could have just as easily been graffitied. But no! They chose the toilet seat itself — the throne, the porcelain palace. This is where the SGA shines.

After all, what speaks louder than carving your name into where people put their colon? If you answered “nothing”, then you’re starting to understand. It’s about respect, recognition. That carving technique they learned in Shawshank State Penitentiary can finally reach the wide audience they dreamed about while sharpening shivs on Cell Block E. It’s finally happening for them.

idiotsNow, I should pause to clarify. The Shitter Graffitti Artist is not to be confused with the equally mindless Toilet Seat Decorator (seen on the right). The main difference between these two fecalfeliacs is that the Toilet Seat Decorator spends hours upon hours gluing seashells or other “quaint” objects to toilet seats, while the Shitter Graffiti Artist spends a few panicked seconds carving “RALFIE” onto a piss-stained restroom. Other than that, the two are quite similar — both share what scientists have identified as the I.D.I.O.T. Gene (or in medical terminology, the “I Decorate Insanity On Toilets” Gene).

The SAG is largely of the male persuasion, as women have an intense fear of toilet seats (hence, the development of “the squat”). It is also more prevalent among males who are not incredibly sexually active, as if they were, they’d spend their time talking to women instead of touching public toilets. The SAG can be found in most truck stops and bars around the country, generally concentrated in areas where the aforementioned “vagina” is lacking.
___________
Also Known As: The Mona Loser, The Restroom Renaissance Man, Doodyfingers, What Germs?, The Toilet Seat Smithsonian, Port-O-Painter, You Should Really Get A Hobby, Picasso’s Plumber

1 Comment

Filed under annoying people, awful, douche, stink, wtf?

#56 The Drunk Girl Horror Show

She just needs someone to talk to.

She just needs someone to talk to.

Wow, this chick’s kinda hot. She says she’s Jill’s best friend from college…huh, I wonder why I’ve never met her before? Damn, she’s chugging that vodka like a champ!! Wait, she keeps giving me that firey-eyed look…What the hell is that? Maybe she likes me?? Maybe I’m gonna score!!!

And thats when you realize that you’ve unwittingly just been invited to the Drunk Girl Horror Show. Cancel any plans you had, and tuck those horny dreams away for the night, because all you’re getting is an earful of shitty stories, and a face-full of tears.

Have a few drinks with her, and you’ll soon find out everything. Everything. Stuff you didn’t want to know, and stuff you shouldn’t know. Keep an ear out for her endless stories about her ex-boyfriend, her terrible fight with anorexia, and if you’re lucky, you might even get the “I was raped” roller-coaster ride. Oh, you just wanted to have a chill night? Well, fuck that — you’re getting a rape story, and you better fucking be there to support her.

Drunk Girl Horror 2Forget the fact that you don’t even know her. She’s all yours tonight. In fact, be ready to be her shoulder to cry on, as well as the shoulder to put her miserable weight on all night. Be warned, after midnight, she surrenders the use of her legs, and will need to be carried around. And if you’re lucky, she’ll cap the night off with a fresh vomit on your couch. It’s a lot of fun, especially since you just met her four hours ago.

You can find the Drunk Girl Horror Show at any bar, club, or place where alcohol is served without a psychiatric test. However, you should be particularly wary of the “friend of a friend”. If you’ve never met her before, there’s probably a good reason why. Other girls can’t stand DGHS either, and will typically only hang out with them when the Horror Show is particularly needy and “just wants a girls night”. This is a horrible situation to be involved in.

But there are warning signs. Typically, the DGHS will begins with stories of her Ex-Boyfriend or will chug massive quantities of alcohol in disproportionate time. If you say, “Wow, how did she drink all that??”, get out as quickly as you can. The show has already begun…
____________
Also Known As: Beer Tears, The Drunk Succubus, I Thought You Said “Ape”, Close Talker, Buzz Killington, I’ll Never Drink Again

6 Comments

Filed under annoying people, awful, booze, college, friends

#54 The Robot-Voice Guy

 

The Ghost of Robot Singers Past & Present

Michael Jackson & Akon: The Ghost of Robot Singers Past & Present

Synthesized pop music of the ‘80s lead the Robot-Voice Guy to bust onto the music scene with a metaphorical raging hard-on, reaching his pinnacle with Michael Jackson’s “PYT (Pretty Young Thing)” in ’83. But since his Thriller apex, Robot-Voice Guy has slowly subjected himself to lower and lower levels of pop music, from the theme of the Transformers cartoon to, most recently, anything Kanye West, T-Pain, or Akon-oriented.

Nonetheless Robot-Voice Guy has become quite the popular singer despite his douchebag-by-association moniker. His secret: disguising horrid R&B vocals through robotic enhancements made in the studio. Just think of him as HAL from “2001” if HAL were programmed by Uncle Luke of 2 Live Crew.

Robot-Voice Guy’s popularity has come with several hit singles in recent years, most of which are thoughtless masculine mantras. Such notable lines include, “Work it, make it, do it, makes us harder better faster stronger,” as well as “Shorty got hips and shorty got ass,” and of course, “I want to fuck you—fuck you.” I know, it’s poetic.

Yet, despite the success of Robot-Voice Guy, he remains largely a mystery. This is moslty due to the fact that the Robot-Voice Guy is not a known person. Because of this lack of physical appearance, Robot-Voice Guy has caused many music traditionalists to speak out, believing the absence of human life makes Robot-Voice Guy a complete bullshit artist rather than a musical artist.

The only known photo of Robot-Voice Guy

The only known photo of Robot-Voice Guy

RVG is a master of catchy choruses, a direct catalyst for the crowded dance floors and excessively loud pubs all across America; although in his defense, his choruses have resulted in a plethora of wet vaginas and the occasional public finger bang. Unfortunately, the cumbersome pussy provided is of no use to him for the obvious reason that he’s not a real person but rather a vocal booth entity created by hi-tech Japanese gadgets.

While listening to Hot 97 or an equivelent shitty rap station, you may find it difficult to discern one Robot-Voice Guy’s song from another. This is normal, as they all use the same Pro Tools effect called “Taint”, which turns their R&B mumblings into a Wall-E-esque garbage heap.

Robot-Voice Guy can be found in all places where velvet ropes, $9 Bud Lights, and attention seekers all conjure together, AKA anywhere in Los Angeles or Manhattan. These places follow a strict rule in that their name can only be one syllable, not unlike the Britpop bands of the mid-90s. Robot-Voice Guy can be found ruining hip-hop music at Club Tryst, Krills, or Crème, or as I’ve recently found out, the Goldfried bar mitzvah.

By Scott Glockholder
______________
Also Known As: Kanye’s chorus, Akon’s album, T-Pain’s career, Britney Spears’ Comeback, Stephen Hawking

3 Comments

Filed under awful, douche, entertainment

#42 The Storytime Haircutter

I'm not just a hair stylist...I'm also annoying!

I'm not just a hair stylist...I'm also annoying!

Look, no one likes getting their hair cut at Supercuts. The quality sucks, the mood is shitty, and usually Lupe doesn’t speak English, so you’re not even sure if she understands how you want it cut. But a majority of us still do it because it’s cheap, quick, and quiet.

But The Storytime Haircutter aims to rob you of that precious silence. Sure, she’ll throw in the cheap and shitty part of the haircut, but fuck you — she’s got some stories to tell.

Have you heard about her kids and Myspace? They’re always on it and she doesn’t approve. Oh, and this one time, she caught her niece’s Myspace profile, and-and she was wearing these like super short skirts. And so she’s like “MMmm, girl…I’m telling your momma!” Please! Tell me more!!

Like a Homeless Person asking for change, the SH will never stop; even if you’re unresponsive or don’t make eye contact. They’re relentless, and as long as you’re trapped in that little seat, they plan on raping you eardrums.

You see, the Storytime Haircutter doesn’t play by the rules. They don’t ask you about YOUR day, they TELL you about theirs. It’s forced role reversal — like paying a Plumber to shit on your floor. And that’s just rude.

You're stories make me want to cut myself

You're stories make me want to cut myself

Instead, I’m treated with the pleasure of a story about how you were stalked by a customer at Koo Koo Roo. Delightful. Oh. No…I actually haven’t had the salad bar at Sizzler. It’s good? OK, well if you say so.

Much like their close counterparts, The Airplane Talker and The Douchebag Dentist (how am I supposed to answer your question when your fingers are in my mouth?!) — the Storytime Haircutter lacks total self-awareness. Despite the fact that you’re PAYING them to cut your hair, they don’t focus on haircutting, they focus on talking. Shitty stories and awful analogies. You know what, forget me. Let’s put those scissors on auto-pilot and hear more about how your father worked in a Pillow Factory.

You should be warned, though — much like Melanoma, the Storytime Haircutter is not someone you should take lightly. You feed too much into their story, and your head will come out looking like a cross-breed between Alfalfa and a newly turned lesbian.

If you have the unfortunate luck of falling victim to a Storytime Haircutter, don’t panic! At the beginning of the cut, tell them the the IPP tried-and-true story: “Yeah, it’s weird. My Dad’s in jail for a pretty brutal haircutting accident. But oh well, he’ll be out in a couple months, so that’s good. …I’m sorry, you were saying something?”
________
Also Known As: Gabby, The Haircut From Hell, Chatty Kathy, Henifer Lopez, The Supercut Sham, Nights in Rodanthe, The Neverending Story IV, Getting Scissored
Related: The Airplane Talker, The “Let Me Tell You About My Day Guy”

3 Comments

Filed under annoying people, awful, haircuts, idiot accessories, work

#39 The Airplane Talker

You remind me of my grandson.

You remind me of my grandson, Rusty!

Your flight was supposed to leave at 1pm. Delay, beer, delay, kiosk sandwich, diahhreah. It’s now 10:30 at night, and you finally sit down in your crammed, cubicle of a seat. You look to your left and see a bright-eyed, white-haired lady. She’s got a smile that’s says “I’ve been waiting for you”, and as you try to close your eyes, she breaks the silence with:

“Oh dear, I can never sleep on planes!”

And that’s when you clench your fist, and wish for the first time that you were addicted to pain killers. Because you’ve just been seated next to the hell-on-earth of air transportation, the demon of travel: The Airplane Talker.

For the next five hours, she will blab on about her dog, her son, her medication. “Oh thank God my dog Muffy is not a shedder. The Doctor said that’s important, you know.” She’ll let you know how she doesn’t understand all this skateboarding and MTV nonesense. She’ll talk about her family, her friends, and how she remembers the days when airplane food was as good as Mom’s lasagna.

At about three hours in, she’ll really start to open up. “…And that’s when I learned I had diabetes. If it wasn’t for Frank giving me those daily suppositories, I wouldn’t be sitting next to you today.” Damn you, Frank! How could you stand her stories?

Shut the fuck up!This is the point where you start zoning out, eyes focusing on the Emergency Exit. “If I just pull it open and push her out, no one will realize…” If it were only that simple. Such is the crux of the Airplane Talker. There is no escape, no where to run. You can try to shut your eyes, try to sleep, but as soon as you flutter those eyes, there’s a story about World War II waiting for you.

You’ll probably be tempted to drop a bunch of Nyquil into her ginger ale when she goes to the bathroom for the eighth time. Do it. This is your only chance for peace.

Mostly due to over-congestion and less frequent flights, the prevalence of the Airplane Talker has increased to epic proportions in recent years. Every random seating assignment runs the serious risk of being placed next to one of these ear-bleeding assholes. It’s important to note, that while I’ve specifically described a female, the Airplane Talker knows no race or sex. Just like their cousin, the Public Transportation Amigo, it could be anyone.

Your best bet to combat Airplane Talkers is to come prepared. On every flight, bring a bottle of Ambien, a horse tranquilizer, and a ball gag. This should give you ample choices as to shutting them the fuck up. Worst case, you’ll at least have a fun flight.
________
Also Known As: Chatty Kathy, The Perpetual Plane Ride, Shut the Fuck Up McGruff, The Living Seinide, The Neverending Story II, Air Bud

3 Comments

Filed under awful, IdiotPantsParty, old people, parents, travel

#36 The Sweater Over Shoulders Herb

I'm sitting on a rubber fist!

I'm sitting on a rubber fist!

In the world of rich yacht-dwelling dipshits, their is one pastel pole-jockey that reigns supreme. This is the Sweater Over Shoulders Herb (or SOSH, for those that’d like to call them it to their face). It takes a bold man to drape a pink sweater over his shoulder like a 1970s country club grandmother. But the SOSH is a bold bunch. So bold, in fact, they often play all-male Twister nude with a bag of Chex Mix Bold Party Blend.

You may be confused at first. Is there a draft in the room? Maybe he’s got a birthmark on his neck he’s ashamed of? Maybe his shoulders are prone to frostbite?

But I assure you, there’s no birthmark, and there’s no draft (well, except for the one that keeps blowing douchebags onto Long Island). There’s just a goober with no fashion sense and a penchant for soft tones.

The sweater is a decoration. Like stripes on an General’s uniform, the SOSH displays his arrogance and wealth by shoulder-sweaters. Just as a rich housewife wears a pearl necklace, the SOSH will adorn themselves with a knitted honor. Polos, business suits, pajamas — as long as there’s a shoulder, the SOSH will hang a sweater on it. In rare instances, you may see three or four sweaters stacked on top of a SOSH’s shoulders. This is known as Accelerated Sweater Syndrome, or abbreviated, being an ASS.

You can find the SOSH in and around the Hamptons, Greenwich, and other areas with old money and no minorities. The will most likely be drinking a Wine Spritzer, feigning heterosexuality, and talking about their new BMW 3 Series convertible: “So I told the Dealership: ‘You want my business, you get me a light pink coupe.'”

When you see a Sweater Over Shoulders Herb, you’re first reaction should be to fake a smile and give the SOSH a huge “nice sweater” thumbs up. In a few minutes, bring your conversation closer to the SOSH, take a lighter out, and subtly light his sweater on fire. This is called “Hot Sweater”. Stand back a few paces, give him that huge thumbs up, and say “Hot Sweater, man!”
__________
Also Known As: The Sisterhood of the Traveling Shoulder Sweaters 3, Country Club Cowboys, The Long Island Birthmark, Herbalicious, Pish Posh SOSH, The Red Badge of Gayness

5 Comments

Filed under awful, beach, clothes, douche, idiot accessories, long island, parents, rich people