*I* am the Asshole at CostCo

The only difference between me and all the other assholes at CostCo is that I'm doing it on purpose because I hate you.

CostCo is a miserable experience that begins before you even get to the store. For me, it doesn't even begin when you get to the parking lot. It begins when I enter the quarter-mile radius surrounding the store where the asshole concentration has increased significantly over the ambient asshole levels.

A typical CostCo experience goes along these lines:

• You pull into the parking lot, hopeful you can get a space somewhat close to the store. As you turn into the row of your choice (it doesn't actually matter which), there is a family packing up their car and some dumbass SUV/minivan/unnecessarily large pickup in the middle of the lane with their turn signal on as if there is a worldwide parking space shortage. The vehicle waiting for the space is invariably too close to the space he's waiting for so that the person occupying the space can't possibly pull out anyway. And even if they could, they couldn't go anywhere because there is a asshole blocking the whole parking lot aisle so that nothing can get through. You look behind you to perhaps back out of this situation, but of course there are 3 cars at a minimum behind you at this point. Meanwhile, you spot at least half a dozen spaces in the adjacent rows so you begin kicking yourself the being optimistic about the parking lot. The asshole in the parking space will hasn't left. Sure he's started his car and his foot is on the brake, but he's not leaving. what the fuck is that asshole doing in there? When all hope seems to be lost and you begin to contemplate suicide, the asshole in the space finally has pulled out and eventually the obnoxiously large vehicle has finally pulled into the space (mind you, it took him a few tries) and your way is clear, so you proceed forward to get to another row to park.
• ...Except that now there are people walking in the middle of the lane, completely oblivious to the fact that there is a vehicle behind them. So you drive forward at walking pace (so slow your speedometer can't register an accurate reading) and reach the end of the aisle, where you have to turn. But you can't turn because again there are people all over the place like ants on a fucking watermelon. And woe be unto you if you choose the wrong aisle in the parking lot for your next attempt or else you'll be waiting for the next asshole to pull into a spot when there are plenty in the next row.
• So finally you have parked and it's time to go in the store; you need a cart. But there's some asshole who has just pulled out a cart and positioned it perpendicularly to the other carts while he's on his phone or some stupid shit, effectively blocking all the carts. You politely wait for him to scamper off in the search of the savings within before you can finally get your cart. As you do, assholes with carts who have just left the store suddenly rally behind you and stop for some dumb fucking reason. What should have taken you 30 seconds on a bad day to acquire a cart has now reached several minutes!
• Once in the store, the assholery continues. The aisles are pretty goddamn wide, so clearly every asshole in the store needs to push their cart down the goddamn middle of them with their 7 kids (or overweight spouse for the childless) taking up the rest of the way. Guess what? They're in every fucking aisle. You're fucked.
• What's that? Free samples? Perhaps you'll find a new delicious product you didn't know about before and purchase. So you put your cart somewhere out of the way and get in the line for your free sample. A new tray of samples comes forth! Before you have your chance, the grubby unwashed hands of the masses have already captured every last morsel. Should you wait another 3 minutes for a sample? The choice is yours.
• Now you'd like to get back to your cart, but multiple assholes have double parked their carts around yours! The aisle is practically unnavigable. Maybe suicide in the parking lot was a good option. Or perhaps homicide.
• After bravely navigating the throngs of overweight people, unsupervised children, and self-absorbed douchebags, it's finally time to check out. When your sticker shock subsides and you collect yourself after begrudgingly paying several hundred dollars for crap you didn't need, it's time to leave.
• ...At least it would be if there weren't a dozen carts blocking and egress from the store because the owners are in line for a 50-cent hot dog while their frozen foods rapidly thaw and will hopefully give their owners relentless diarrhea for days on end. You push on through and get your receipt checked.
• ...But the fuckwit at the front of the 15-person long receipt checking line can't find it. It was handed to him barely 90 seconds ago and he fucking lost it. A courteous person would pull his cart aside to search for his receipt. But no, he is parked squarely in the middle of the lane, blocking anyone's chance of getting around him. And in all that time, you would think the next person would have their receipt ready to go, but this woman is incredibly fat and so absorbed in her hot dog it's a miracle she didn't eat the paper tray it came in.
• Once you get your receipt checked, you could make a beeline for your car... if the person in front of you hadn't just stopped to block the exit, apparently to file the receipt into their increasingly complex pocket filing system. And how about now's a great fucking time for them to check their phone, a task that could be completed do while moving. Could, but isn't.
• By the time you get to your car, some asshole in their dumbass SUV/minivan/unnecessarily large pickup has stopped in the middle of the lane with their turn signal on as if there is a worldwide parking space shortage, waiting for your space. You would love to leave, but guess what? They're too fucking close. When they eventually get the fucking message that you can't move until they move, you start to back out, just to slam on your brakes as a family emerges from nowhere, inches from your car and led by a gaggle of barely supervised children.
• Eventually, you have successfully navigated the parking lot, full of people texting while driving and idiots walking down the center of the lanes. Your thoughts change slowly from suicide to grabbing a soup spoon and digging into your gallon drum of mayo.

Enough of these trips to CostCo and I stopped attempting to get around people or even acknowledging them. When I go to CostCo these days, I drive down the middle of the parking lot. I walk down the center of every aisle with my cart. I leave my cart in the way. I am the hand that comes from nowhere to steal your free sample. I am the one that sits in my car with the engine running and in reverse, but I'm not going anywhere for a few minutes. There's not a goddamn thing you can do about it, either, because I've taken it a step further: I'm wearing headphones. Why do I do all this? Because fuck you.

Somebody Buy a Ruler for Wegmans

Wegmans subs are made of awesome. In fact, that's the only ingredient. They taste like they were made by a unicorn riding an elephant down a river of magma while a marching band plays John Philip Sousa tunes using only cannons and guitars.

I bought a "3.5 inch" Wegmans sub a while ago. While it was delicious (and just like all those things I said up there), I couldn't help but notice it didn't seem like 3.5 inches of pure awesome on white bread. I got out the only thing I had on me with a consistent length: a dollar bill, which as you know is 2.61 by 6.14 inches. 

This sub was not even 3 inches. Someone owe me a half-inch of awesome. Now that I've typed that I immediately regret it. Carry on.

Battery Packaging

What's wrong with battery companies? Every battery package's cardboard backing has a pull tab and perforated tear lines so that in theory you have access to every battery you just bought. But 100% of the time when you attempt to open the package, this happens:

Why? Because the battery companies secretly hate you. They build up false hope and revel in your disappointment and frustration.

Don't let them win. Rip the batteries out any way other than the "Open here" tab and foil their evil plan.

Embassy Suites is a Huge Waste of Space

I love Embassy Suites. I get multiple rooms (hence the Suites) and free beer (hence the Embassy). But I noticed something. The vast majority of every Embassy Suites is just a big empty waste of space.

Embassy Suites hotels are in a square formation. The first floor has the front desk and a large square breakfast/manager's reception area. But every floor above that is just a square of rooms along the outside. This goes up about 12 stories. So you end up with the breakfast area having natural light and every room opening inward to look down on this breakfast area

Is the effect of having this cavernous space on the middle worth the money they could be making by actually building floors and putting rooms in them? I guess so.

Fuck it, I'm getting another free beer.

Why I *Really* Quit Division

My relatively brief time in Division is coming to an end on Saturday, although it felt like an eternity. Don't listen to whatever Division posted on their website or their Facebook page about why I left the band. I had my reasons. Four of them, in fact. And here they are:

4. James Goetz.

I don't know what the hell is wrong with this guy. An orange drumkit? That's not metal (unless you're October 31). It looks like he's playing a bunch of safety cones. Has anyone noticed he listens to an iPod during Division's live shows? There's a reason. He actually hates all Division songs and blasts songs he considers to be good (mostly new Dimmu Borgir and some Nile) during the shows.

James's cymbals usually have cracks in them. This is not because he is an intense dummer. No, it's because James sucks so bad, the cymbals are trying to commit suicide. James also has a problem with dropping sticks. They'll do anything to get away from his terrible drumming.

3. Nick Kelly.

It's a little-known fact that Nick Kelly became a frontman for the sole reason of showing off his obscure hockey jersey collection. Now you know why he can't sing. Instead of buying lessons, he for some reason bought a Calgary Hitmen jersey.

I have a long-standing rule never to trust anyone with two first names. Nick Kelly is a perfect example why. This guy plays bass in Just Wanna Play, a terrible cover band formed by a bunch of terrible musicians (see numbers 3, 2, and 1 in this list). Nick is a fantastic bass player, but he refuses to play in Division so he can openly mock whoever is their current bassist. He does this because he's that much of a dick.

Also, that's why he's leaving the band, too. Because he's a dick.

2. Dave Evans.

I thought munchkins were supposed to be nice. They're not. He will not discuss the location of his pot of gold, nor will he ever answer the question "How's the weather down there?" It's awkward trying to stand next to him onstage because of the constant fear that I will trip over him.

Dave loves Mesa amplifiers to an unhealthy degree. He has repeatedly confessed that if Mesa was a dude, he would repeatedly perform "that special favor". I'm sure he has attempted to on his amp, which would explain the stains all over the back of it. It's true that Mesa amps can sound great, but not when Dave is playing through them. You can only polish a turd so much.

Dave thinks he's singing backup vocals, too, but immediately after every sound check, we have his mic muted. It's true. Not that one more terrible, off-key singer will ruin the already-terrible singing. They just gave him a mic to make him feel important. He's not.

1. Mike Blevins.

"Mike" is actually short for "Methuselah". I know. I've seen his Arizona drivers license. Why Arizona? Because they don't expire for 50 years. He's only had to renew it twice. When Mike forgets to take his medication, he tends to forget what part of the song we're playing. One time, he played the opening riff for "Hunt" 78 times. He only stopped when he fell asleep.

Speaking of riffs, Mike is a human riff encyclopedia. Name any song since the Dark Ages (when Mike first learned guitar) and not only will he play it for you, but he will talk your ear off with a boring pointless story about how he met Bill Haley once. With such a wealth of musical knowledge, it's amazing that he can't come up with a single decent riff for Division to play. Have you heard Control Issues? Eugh.

I'm glad to be out of that band. I can now focus on Burning Shadows, whose biggest problems are the alcoholism and pervasive unwillingness to put forth any effort whatsoever. So really it's not that much different from Division.

For reals, though, I'll miss playing with these guys. I had some great times and believe I have become a better musician because of my time with Division. Keep it true, guys.

Santa and Coal

For Xmas, here's a guest blog by Destruktikon the Elder:

OK, let's think about this:

Santa gives presents to good little boys and girls and leaves lumps of coal for the bad little boys and girls.  But look at the configuration of the sleigh--  a well proportioned seat for the ample girthed Santa to ride in;   a  place for a big bag of toys.  Where the heck does he keep the coal?  

He makes a list and marks it with who is naughty or nice -- suggesting that the proportion of naughty children to nice children is near equal and somewhat dynamic.  If there was a significant skew toward naughty or nice he would employ blacklist/whitelist procedures to make delivery planning easier.  This implies that there has to be a LOT of coal because nearly half of all little boys and girls are "naughty".  (This also raises the question of whether the list is maintained in real-time and if they use transactional guarantees to ensure that the integrity of the list is maintained -- but I won't go into that here -- maybe next year...)

Is there a separate just-in-time delivery process for coal?  If there were and considering the volume of coal delivery required, much more Christmas lore would be directed at that system.  I think we can discount the JIT coal delivery hypothesis.

Is there a supply of coal on board that we can't see?  Probably not because the mass of the sleigh, toys and coal when Santa initiates his route would be considerable -- and if he's hauling coal, it would probably be for an additional power source to supplement the reindeer on the first half of the delivery route when the sleigh and cargo are heaviest.  But coal must not be used for fuel or the sleigh would have a large boiler and smoke stack which is certainly not in any of the traditional images of the sleigh.

Is there coal mixed in with the bag of toys?  If so, wouldn't the good children's presents be sooty and grimy from the coal?  

Are there separate compartments in the bag for presents and coal?  If the density of the coal is significantly different than that of the toys, that may make the bag unwieldy to manage.  Also carrying a bag with a significant amount of coal into every home probably violates some local and regional ordinances.

Does he use his super Santa strength to crush the bad children's presents into black lumps?  That seems especially cruel and would consume a considerable amount of energy.  And it's probably not efficient to produce a toy and then crush it down into a lump just prior to delivery. (Though I admit this option appeals to me at some perverse level.)

No, I think the answer is elsewhere.  Look again at the configuration of the sleigh.  There is a component of the system architecture that can produce dark worthless lumps.  In fact, there are eight of them (nine if you count Rudolf).  So it's not coal that's being left to the naughty children...

I hope you've been good this year.