Category Archives: old people

#61 The Aged Metal Head

I'm gonna rock your flapper dress off!

I'm gonna rock your flapper dress off!

Unlike the sharp cheddar they stink so badly of, the Aged Metal Head is not something that gets better with age. They are as nostalgic as seeing a Native American behind the wheel of a Studebaker; once you witness this rare site you’ll be forced to think of a time when such a thing propagated the American landscape (just like Long John Silver’s). The AMH is from that last bastion of 80s rock, so caught up in his statement from high school that he’ll “forever rock” that he’s forgotten about the social standards that come with growing up — namely the “job” and “not wearing mesh-t-shirts” part.

Key traits of AMH include a receded hairline with the remaining hair shoulder-length, a love for denim vests and black denim jeans, and black wristbands (ironic considering his inactive lifestyle requires absolutely no athletic garb whatsoever). Unfortunately, for all the enthusiasm and innovation behind this get-up, his Sam Ashe sales position doesn’t allow such wardrobe freedom in the workplace.

'Ol Dirty RockerAged Metal Heads are generally white men with ratty upper lips and form-fitting clothing. Fading tattoos of dragons and the usage of ladies spandex are also key. Nonetheless, AMHs see nothing wrong in their out-of-date appearance. Whereas metal gods like Dave Mustaine and James Hetfield have adapted to life with children, wives, and a career, the Aged Metal Head has not (in his defense: he has neither children, a wife, or a career).

The AMH would be someone you’d like to high-five, maybe even jam with, if he wasn’t such a pretentious smarmy employee. They hate this “new” rock ‘n roll, where people don’t have frizzy hair, and are incredibly disheartened by the rising sales of certain consumer purchases, namely Rock Band, Guitar Hero, and turntables. But what they hate even more: when customers practice blues riffs on one of the several Fender Stratocasters they’re trying to pitch on the selling floor. All this adds up into a boiling rage that’s only released during basement guitar sessions when his parents leave the house, or during his drive back to the house, where he has all the time in the world to air drum to Metallica’s “One.”

The Aged Metal Head can be found working at any Sam Ashe or Guitar Center across the nation or in any city that has a steady denim provider. If bored and looking for a fun activity, look for Aged Metal Head and ask him about his “old girlfriend” and why they aren’t together anymore. Unlike the AMH, that story never gets old.

By Scott Glockholder
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Also Known As: Lars Ulshit, Heavy Mothball, “To Those About to Age, We Salute You”, Satan’s Class of ’86, Death Gip, Am I Cool Yet?, Queens of the Stone Age, Jon Bon Blow-Me

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Filed under clothes, music, old people, piercing

#49 The Facebook Parent

Mom.  Not Cool.

Mom. Not Cool.

There’s only one thing worse than social networking, and that’s social networking when you’re old. It’s enough that every person I’ve ever been aquatinted with can now view pictures of me and write on my “wall” — but the day that Mom and Dad enter this equation….I’m about ready to give up on the internet.

There was once a time when moving out of the house meant you were a grown adult, capable of leading your own independent life. But thanks to the Facebook Parent, your life has become their wallpaper.

parents-on-facebook3

And why not. They only have three friends total. You, your sister, and that dude Steve that lives down the block. And Steve’s a dick.

The Facebook Parent is the over-intrusive, “Jewish Mother” of the internet. They are invasive and overbearing, but through the help of countless Friendster sites, are able to view your private details with very little snooping around. They used to have to ransack your room for no-nos when you went off to summer camp, but thanks to your stoner buddy, she can now see you holding a joint in your recently tagged pictures.

The Facebook Parent can be found in increasing numbers across the internet — their uncomfortable presence gaining momentum due to Facebook’s exponential “laming” process. You’ll find the FP concentrated largely in suburbia, and generally of the Mom (female) variety. Dad’s will more frequently use their previledge as FP to scour their son/daughter’s Friends for “hot chicks” and reminisce about the days when he used to get pussy.

But all is not lost, young Facebook apprentice. Thankfully, there is still a large facet of Parents that don’t know how to turn on the computer. Pray that your Parent is one of them. And if worst comes to worst, you can do what I did: Declining your Mom’s friend invite. Look Mom, I didn’t want it to have to come down to this, but you forced my hand. We are family, not friends. And I don’t want you writing on any of my walls.
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Also Known As: Myspace Mom, Jewish Mother 2.0, We’re Friends AND Family, Inspector Parent, The Worst Thing Ever, The Facebook Flaw

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Filed under annoying people, family, friends, internet, old people, parents

#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.
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Also Known As: Chatty Kathy, The Perpetual Plane Ride, Shut the Fuck Up McGruff, The Living Seinide, The Neverending Story II, Air Bud

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

#29 The Movie Theater Applauder

Wow!  That Brett Ratner did it again!

Wow! That Brett Ratner did it again!

There’s always one person that ruins a great experience. At Faber College it was Dean Wormer, in the 90s it was that parachuting fan man, and since then, it’s been the Movie Theatre Applauder. Where the former two were single, flash-in-the-pan jackasses (on par with Sugar Ray’s Mark McGrath), the Movie Theatre Applauder is omnipresent and everlasting — and he or she hasn’t let up since my first cinema outing in the mid-80s.

Perhaps the most annoying characteristic about the Movie Theatre Applauder is their anonymity. Just like the drunk girl at the party packing the clap, you don’t know who’s going to ruin your experience until after you’ve had your fun. They’re a slick and self-conscious bunch, able to cloak their nimrod habit just as the house lights are turned on.

With their “clap and bounce” strategy, MTA’s slither out the exit well before a crow-hop hard-right from myself or any other person trying to enjoy the sullen end to Requiem For A Dream. Yet, just a few seconds ago they were applauding with pure vigor, as if Darren Aronofsky was going to answer questions in a post-flick seminar.

Unfortunately, that’s not the case. There is no Aronofsky standing at the podium, no producers to give you insight. The only person waiting when those lights come on is the 17-year old usher, who’s lethargy is at its peak because he’s well aware he’ll be picking up my empty box of Raisinets and the five cans of Sparks I left in the back row.

I’m the D-bag applauding after What Happens In Vegas.

I’m the D-bag applauding after What Happens In Vegas.

Although similar to their annoying counterpart,The Black Movie Theater Talker, the Movie Theater Applauder cowers at the prospect of being identified. Even so, we’ve managed to draw a rough sketch: Applauders are more of the New England smug type; the same people who wear turtle necks underneath corduroy sport coats, work on the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle in bed, and indulge in brunch at least 12 times a month.

If one is to ever catch a Movie Theatre Applauder, I recommend they duff him or her out, but hold back on their vindictive assault. One should shackle the applauder and bring him or her to the nearest university, where their blood can be tested to see if they’re genetically predisposed to being a douche bag.

By Scott Glockholder
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Also Known As: And The Dipshit Is…, Credits Killer, Clap Your Hands Say Gay, How To Lose An Eye in 10 Seconds, Clappy Gilmore

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Filed under douche, entertainment, old people

#22 The Sandal Sock Guy

Look at those tighty whiteys
In a world where socks are for shoes and sandals are for bare-feet, one socially inept man struggles to bridge the gap. This is the Sandal Sock Guy. And god damnit, he’s going to fit that flipflop over his knee-highs if it’s the last thing he does.

The Sandal Sock Guy is the “never nude” of footware. And in the realm of foot fashion, he is the retard king. He makes the conscious choice to take a comfortable sandal and turn it into a battle of cotton vs. leather. In fact, he’s more than willing to endure some hardcore toe-chaffing to maintain that style.

Sure, they look like idiots. But the Sandal Sock lacks total self-awareness. It’s not that they don’t care, they’re too old to care. And if you’ve learned anything from The Bucket List, there’s nothing worse than an old man set in his ways. That’s the way he put on that sandal, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.

Where am I?The Scale of Sandal Sock Superiority was created by the German’s in 1966, and it’s based on a weighted scale ranging from -73 to 0. A man’s rank depends solely on the footwear they sock-rock. The Teva velcro fashion will put you at the low end (-70), Birkenstock leather style will keep you in the midrange (-35), and the standard flip flop, or the “Plastic V”, will get you the highest rank (-1). A full vacation sock-rocking the V can get you some serious street cred, and in certain German villages, can make you royalty.

You can expect to see the Sandal Sock Guy near or at the beach. He will undeniably be an elderly man on vacation, or “on holiday” as he might call it. The older the man, the higher his tube socks will be jacked up. And he will more than likely have all of these: a map, a fanny pack, clip-on sunglasses, and a look of bewilderment.

If you see a Sandal Sock, and he stops to ask you directions, do one of two things: a) If he’s 40-63 years old, regardless of where he’s trying to go, give him directions to the nearest shoe store, or b) If he’s over 63, just point him towards the beach. He’s made it this far, and you might kill the old bastard if you confuse him any more.
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Also Known As: The Old Man Camel Toe, The Sandal Battle, The Cotton Sleigh Ride, Teva Toes, That Idiot Wearing Socks and Sandals

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