I hate a race of people.
I know! How can I say something like that in this day and age? I’ll be vilified on Twitbook. I’ll be crucified on Instachat. I’ll be mocked relentlessly on all media platforms. I’ll be shunned by all my friends (well, not all of them) and petitions will be signed to take away my thorax by the throngs who hadn’t heard of me until I did something so vile and unspeakable. You know, vile and unspeakable like attacking a stranger because you’re a self-righteous twat.
Back the fuck off, Nancy, so the big boys can play through.
Let’s get back to the race I hate, shall we?
I hate blonde on blonde couples.
Definition: two blondes in a couple.
You know, Hitler’s old jizz sock.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate them because they’re blonde or they’re a couple. I have many blonde friends and many more who are couples. I really like some of them. I tolerate others because I’m a tolerant little fuck. Just like I tolerate other people. I’m a wonderful fucking guy. Just ask me!
And don’t think I hate them because they’re beautiful because, let’s be honest, they usually aren’t. Oh, they think they are but they’re not. Their faces are usually pursed and pinched in a perpetual expression of having experienced an odorous moment. As if a commoner were near.
And I’m not talking professional blonde on blonde couples (although I probably would hate them to remain consistent). They’re not really couples. They’re created by PR firms to hide the fact that he’s gay and she thinks she’s a piece of toast.
Just your average walking around blonde on blonde couple.
And it’s because they’re all the same (making it easier to group hate, thankfully). They’re all entitlement and pretension and attention seeking. Think about it. Have you ever been in a group where a blonde on blonde couple hasn’t been sullying the shallow end with vapidity when you’ve finally said,
“I knew I should have brought my eye gouging spork with me.”?
They speak of only people (they can name drop), places (they’ve heard of) and things (they want to buy). If they wander off those topics it’s only to venture into a subject they have endlessly studied so the facts they have learned can be spewed with mind numbing monotony.
As separate entities they can often be not strangulation worthy. I’ve separated the herd and had pleasant chats. Surface but pleasant. But when the couple pairs up it’s as if two wet bags of shit collide. There’s a weird stink in the air, people are a little queasy and the surface has a thick sheen of sticky.
My blonde on blonde couple hatred was awoken the other night. I know being near an ocean increases the possibility of spotting the putrid pair but I’m seasoned. I can usually spot them and find my way to safety before those people get too close to me. But this night they sat down right next to me. I couldn’t escape for I was in the middle of my meal.
But I have my skill set down. I have a high level of selective hearing (ask my girlfriend), the ability to use my peripheral vision wisely (I can see them looking to engage me while looking straight ahead) and a Zen like ability of not reacting when someone says something idiotic.
All useful skills when around a blonde on blonde couple.
I didn’t say I don’t notice their activities I just don’t react. And this couple did not let me down. They played their chosen roles like the insipid people they are. When the new bartender came over they ignored him to get the attention of one they know.
“Oh,” she says waving her hands in an overly arched fashion. “We’re regulars and she knows us.” The new guy walks away but shoots me a look. I nod back. Teammates.
She starts regaling the disinterested bartender (I know that to be true because later the two bartenders and I were talking. She said it’s the same thing every time they come in. And it’s not on a regular basis, she said. “Once a month, once every other month is not regular. But it is more than enough.” See? Self-importance is a big factor with them) who is trying to take care of other customers while this woman is trying to monopolize her attention.
She gets a little bent out of shape when the bartender has to walks three steps across the bar to put down a plate. I heard the air of haughtiness blow past her lips. When the bartender steps back the woman begins the story from the top. I see the slight slump of a worn out customer server. The story was so boring the first time I wondered if I should offer the bartender my personal eye gouging spork.
After much prodding they begin their ordering process. And let’s hope there is not one shocked expression in the stands when I say that the special order special pulled into special town.
A type of wine but only if it’s a specific brand. If it’s not then it’s a different
vintage but only if it’s a certain geographic location. Finally stumbling upon a suitable libation they’re on to their meal. Sort of. For the entire night they ordered one course at a time. The bartender would drop one order but before she could escape the woman had (conveniently) forgotten to ask for a condiment that was hardly touched during the meal.
And before the bartender could bring the next course, all plates had to be removed and the bar wiped down. I might hate them but I can’t say they were sloppy eaters (she did sound like someone chewing a light bulb during the salad though). But, dutifully, plates were removed and a wipe down commenced.
For the entire time one of them (I know I’ve been focusing on the woman but that’s only because she was sitting next to me so was easier to hear. But don’t worry, he gets his) kept either directing the bartender where to wipe or telling them how they should be doing it. How can you not hate blonde on blonde couples?
Of course, each item they had also had a blonde on blonde couple touch to it. Everything had to be replated after it got to them because they were going to split everything. Isn’t that so sweet? Makes you want to stab them in the base of the skull with a melon baller.
At the end they ordered one more glass of wine and I know you’re going to think I’m doing a little comic exaggeration here but I’m not. They split the last glass of wine. Where’s my melon baller when I need it?
During the last half glass of wine they talk amongst themselves and it quickly becomes a snooty lesson from the man to the woman. I’m talking full blown dressing down of her. The tone of his voice as he (and again, I am not making this up) began to regale her with his vast knowledge of the capital cities of the world was condescending at best. He took pride in being able to name capital cities? Isn’t that the same trick a four year old trots out in the sandbox?
He bellowed that so few people’s vessels contain this knowledge and he’s sorry for them. Then started a recitation that began in the US but ventured outward to the vast and unknowing wilderness. For about ten minutes. Of course, after he’d rattle off a city, he’d take that triumphant moment to castigate his audience for her lack of high level knowledge.
At this time I made sure to glance over to see if this was a first date and he was trying to (poorly) impress her. Nope, married. Wow! That’s even worse. She chooses to put up with this pretentiou. . .oh, that’s right, part and parcel of being in a blonde on blonde couple.
Suddenly he loudly summons the new bartender standing two feet away and asks for the check. The bartender puts it down and steps away.
“Excuse me,” she says. The bartender stops. “As I’ve said, we’re regulars so what’s our name?”
I cleared my throat. I know, a rookie mistake that I paid for when she looked at me as if I were a pilgarlic. The bartender stands there uncomfortably. I start to think if they even introduced themselves to him. I am positive they did not. What a bitch move. Or as I think of it, the penultimate blonde on blonde couple asshole moment of the night.
The bartender finally has to capitulate and say he’s sorry but he does not know. She pardons him as she and her betrothed scan the bill. They stand with a flourish, wave to their many friends in the bar (no one did more than look up for a second at the commotion then look back down. But that never matters to a blonde on blonde couple. It’s all about the presentation) and exits.
The new bartender picks up the check and looks at it. Then he once again looks at me.
“What’d they leave?”
“Ten percent. Pre-tax.”
I was wrong earlier, THIS is the penultimate blonde on blonde couple asshole moment of the night.
I tell him they probably justified leaving a shitty tip because he didn’t know their name.
“And at this rate I never fucking will.”
You know, I like this new guy. Think I’m going to make him a membership card.