Jerks of the Week - Feb. 28, 2011

Jerks of the Week for Feb. 28, 2011


JERK OF THE WEEK NO. 1: Friday Night Out

I spend thousands of hours working on this Web site every week, so I don't get to go out often. It's fine. I love my job, and I'm fine with the sacrifice I have to make. And besides, after spending six years at Penn State, my liver would probably have a heart attack if I continued to drink as much as I did at college.

I was able to go out two weeks ago. My BFF Josh took the train up to Feasterville. Even though the train station is across the street from my development, he asked me to pick him up. Wuss. I wouldn't have cared, except that a bum blocked the exit of the train station for five minutes as he slumped over and scoured the sidewalk for half-filled beer bottles. Have I mentioned how much I hate bums?

After defeating Josh in a thrilling heads-up poker battle - yeah, we're cool like that - we decided to head out to my local bar, Whiskey Tango. You can click the link to read all about Whiskey Tango, but here's a quick recap:

Their patrons include gray-bearded bikers, KKK members and dudes who like to "wrastle."

The music is awfully loud and loudly awful.

Douche bags who think their brides are ugly get married there.

Pirates who molest skinny girls often search for Whiskey Tango, but can't locate the bar.

Josh and I were forced to pay $8 each for Whiskey Tango's ridiculous cover charge. As soon as I handed over my mortgage payment, the guy at the door asked us if we were there to see the band on stage.

Ugh. I hate bands. I have nothing against a group of guys playing some songs together - not that there's anything wrong with that - but bands at bars typically suck. They play obnoxiously loud crappy music and no one can hear each other talk.

The band that was playing at Whiskey Tango that night absolutely sucked. I forget what they were called, but they were wearing weird black-white-and-red makeup. And I wouldn't say they were singing anything either. It was more yelling than anything. Here's a sample of what their music sounded like:

"RAWWRRR BLARRBLARRBLARR BLAAHAHHHDHDHAHAHA BLEEEEERRRRRBLAAAARRRR BLOOORRRRRRR BLAAAHHHA BRRYYYAAAN BUULLAAAGGAAA GGRRRRAWWWWRRRR HRRRRRAAAAARRRRRAAAAHAHAHA!!!"

I tried searching iTunes for that song, but nothing came up. Damn it.

It wasn't just the band that was scary; I would say 90 percent of the people at Whiskey Tango that night were wearing similar makeup to support the band. Seriously, there were chicks walking around looking like zombies, evil clowns and Amy Winehouse. I tried to discuss this with Josh.

Me: These people are scary-looking.

Josh: Shut up, dude, you're going to get us beat up.

*** Like I said, Josh is a wuss. ***

Me: No one's going to get beat up. Ugh, why do these girls look like monsters?

Josh: Shhhhhh!!! You're going to get stabbed!

I didn't have the opportunity to get stabbed because we left for another bar. Two girls asked us to come out to Paddy Whacks (off the Boulevard in Northeast Philly). My only regret is not being able to hear the band's next hit single, "BRUBRUBRU RRAAAAKAKAKA DRRROOOOO ZZZZWWWAHAHAHA."

Paddy Whacks was much better. There was no scary band. There was no coverage charge. Hell, there wasn't even anyone at the front door checking IDs. Josh and I just walked in.

After about an hour of drinking and talking, I went to the bathroom. I went into a stall because it was the only thing open. Right after I shut the door, I overheard one of the most nonsensical conversations of all time:

Manayunk Man: Yo man, Manayunk's the s*** man! You ever been to Manayunk man? It's the s*** man! Manayunk's the s***!

Random Guy: Yeah I've been to Manayunk.

Manayunk Man: I've been tryin' foreva to get my friends to go to Manayunk, man. They don't understand how Manayunk's the s*** man.

Random Guy: Thaz crazy.

Manayunk Man: I don't understand it, man. How come my friends don't understand that Manayunk's the s***? I don't get it.

Random Guy: Me neither.

Manayunk Man: You never believe this man. Last weekend I got stuck workin'. Cleanin' pipes and s***. And guess where my friends finally went to?

Let me guess, Manayunk?

Manayunk Man: The mountains!

What!? Your story makes no sense. With a buildup like that, the answer is supposed to be Manayunk!

Random Guy: Thaz crazy.

Manayunk Man: Yeah man, do you believe that s***?

I can't. How dare your friends go up to the mountains? I can only imagine this discussion...

Manayunk Man: Yo mans, I gotta clean pipes and s*** this weekend.

Friend A: That's too bad.

Friend B: Yeah, we were going to go up to the mountains. It would be ironic if we went to Manayunk without you, but you are too small-minded to understand irony.

Friend C: Agreed. And it's too bad that constantly drinking yourself into oblivion has prevented you from finding a better job than cleaning pipes.

Manayunk Man: Yo mans, cleaning pipes is the s*** man. What's even more the s*** is Manayunk. You gotta go to Manayunk this weekend man. Manayunk's the s***. It's so much s*** you can't even understand how much s*** Manayunk is.

Friend A: Meh. If you were sober once in a while we'd believe you.

Friend B: And spoke proper grammar. Seriously, dude, "mans" is not a word. And can you please not say the S-word once in a while?

Friend C: We're definitely going to the mountains. Sorry.

Manayunk Man: I can't believe this s*** mans. I don't understand how you don't understand Manayunk is the s***!

Hey, at least Manayunk Man isn't asking you to go to Whiskey Tango. After listening to that horrible music and almost getting stabbed, Manayunk actually does sound like the s*** in comparison.

JERK OF THE WEEK NO. 2: Saturday at the Gym

We had a mini-after party at my house after the bar closed. I didn't get to sleep until 8 a.m., and I woke up at 1. Despite the fact that I felt like a zombie, I mustered enough energy to go to the gym. Big mistake.

I've mentioned before that my gym rents out the basketball courts to communist soccer players. Instead of the traditional Mongolian soccer losers, little snot-nosed kids are playing there now. They begin their games at 4, so I figured if I got to the gym at 3, I'd be able to play for an hour.

Unfortunately, my plans were thwarted because both courts were full. One side featured guys a lot taller and athletic than me (i.e. not white people). The other side was comprised of several weirdos, including:

Will Smith's Kid: I don't know if this was really Will Smith's son or not, but Josh saw him and immediately exclaimed, "Look, it's Will Smith's kid!" This guy looked exactly like that douche bag from that awful Karate Kid remake. I believe anyone associated with that remake should be stoned in public.

Disproportional Man: One of the weirdest-looking people I've ever seen, Disproportional Man is a 5-foot-2 Mexican whose head is about 2-and-a-half feet in diameter. I wish I were making this up. He also wears high socks and jacks up threes at every opportunity. Not the most fun person to play basketball with.

Lurch: A tall, chubby kid who always has a vacant expression on his face. His "friends" always criticize him. The problem is that he moves very slowly, so when he's not quick enough to react to a rebound, his "friends" yell, "Get the f***ing rebound dude, what the hell is wrong with you!?" But Lurch doesn't react; instead he just stares back, seemingly thinking, "Derrrrrr."

Cherry Picker: I hate - HATE - playing basketball with this dude. He's short (about 5-3) and always wears designer shirts to the gym. During the games, he never - NEVER - gets back on defense, opting to stay at the other end instead. Once the opposing team scores or misses a shot, he raises his hand for a pass. Since no one thinks to guard him, he always gets the easy layup.

I didn't want to play basketball with these a**holes, so I waited to see if a court would clear up. It didn't happen, and before I knew it, it was 4 o'clock. Stupid kids ran into the gym and began kicking soccer balls around (not that there's anything wrong with that).

Meanwhile, their ridiculous parents wore matching clothes to support their children. For example, the parents on the orange team all donned orange t-shirts or orange hoodies. Again, this is some stupid soccer league for 8-year-old kids on a basketball court. Am I wrong, or is this just a little insane?

And just when I thought the parents were bad, I overheard a conversation between two Mongolians who wearing colorful soccer jerseys and observing the kids.

Mongolian Soccer Fan: Hello, Armeet. How are you?

Armeet: Good, good. How are you, my friend?

Mongolian Soccer Fan: Good.

Armeet: Blue Team look strong this year.

Mongolian Soccer Fan: Yes. Look very strong. Blue Team will beat Red Team today.

Are you f***ing kidding me? Two grown men are analyzing an 8-year-old soccer league? Can someone please deport these douche bags now?

Completely frustrated, I went upstairs to swim. I knew I had a half hour because the pool closes at 4:30 on Saturdays.

Well, it used to. As I walked out of the locker room, I noticed that all the fat ladies were rolling out of the pool and into the locker room. I went to the lifeguard just to make sure...

Me: Hey man, the pool closes at 4:30, right?

Lifeguard: Nah, 4:00.

Me: Are you serious? I thought it was 4:30.

Lifeguard: It used to be, but they changed it.

Ugh. Closing the pool a half hour early so you can avoid paying $8 to the lifeguard? That's awesome, gym. Way to go. What's the matter, are the communist soccer families and weirdo Mongolians not driving in enough revenue?

JERK OF THE WEEK NO. 3: Sunday at the Gym

The pool closes at 4 on Sunday as well, so I wanted to make sure I got to the gym around 3 so I could get my mile in. I watched the Ohio State-Purdue basketball game instead, however, so I didn't leave my house until 3:20.

I walked into the gym at 3:35. The girl working the front desk was a Russian brunette who would look pretty cute if she didn't have a mustache. I've known her for a while, so I just waved hello to her and walked toward the door. This didn't fly with her.

Russian Mustache Chick: You have to swipe your gym ID!

Me: What? But you know who I am.

Russian Mustache Chick: It doesn't matter. You still need to swipe your card.

Me: But you know I'm a member here. The pool's closing in 25 minutes!

My friend Dale, who also just walked into the building, overheard our conversation and intervened.

Dale (sarcastically): Don't you know who that is? That's Walter Football. He has a sign downstairs.

Russian Mustache Chick: I don't care.

Dale: But he pays for like four memberships.

Russian Mustache Chick: It doesn't matter. Everyone's the same.

Dale (now growing frustrated): What do you mean it doesn't matter? He's helping to keep this place open.

Russian Mustache Chick: He has to scan his ID! Everyone's the same.

I had enough of this nonsense. She's known me for years. Hell, she saw me swipe my card last week. The pool was closing soon, thanks to the gym's ridiculous hours, and I wasn't going to spend five minutes fishing through my bag just to find my ID. So, I just walked in and ignored her pleas. Take that, you mustachioed communist!

With only 20 minutes to swim, I managed about three quarters of a mile. Not bad. As I was getting dressed, the conversation I had with Russian Mustache Chick reminded me that my sign agreement expires in March. The guy who runs the gym is also in charge of the 18-and-over basketball leagues on Sunday, so I went downstairs to talk to him.

I last played in these basketball leagues in 2005. I haven't done so since because the games are on Sunday, which conflicts with my football schedule. That, and I suck at shooting, passing and dribbling.

As I strolled into the gym, I quickly realized how different the leagues were. Back when I played, most teams were comprised of 5-foot-10 Russian computer engineers and 6-foot-1 Indian doctors. Now, it's nothing but ex-cons.

The first play I saw was an offensive foul. This obscenely large white man (6-4, 280) with tattoos running down both his arms rammed into a smaller black man. The ref, a white guy with a robotic leg, called White Ex-Con for a charge. White Ex-Con turned to the handicapped official and began yelling, "How the f*** is that a foul? How the f*** is that a foul, ref?"

Umm... I don't know... maybe because you bodyslammed the other guy?

White Ex-Con continued, following the referee around, "Call it both ways, ref. Call it both ways!!!"

The referee looked like he s*** his pants. He was terrified. And I can't blame him. If a 6-foot-4, 280-pound monstrosity who spent countless years in prison was leering at me, I'd probably soil my pants too.

I waited until the game was over to approach the guy running the gym.

Me: Hey, I need to pay you to have the sign up for another year. How much is it going to be?

Gym Coordinator: I don't know.

Me: You don't know? Do you have any sort of idea?

Gym Coordinator: I don't know.

What? OK, I guess I just won't pay for it then? It's a good thing this guy doesn't work at Best Buy or anything...

Me: Hey, I want to buy this 56-inch LED HDTV. How much is it?

Gym Coordinator: I don't know.

Me: What do you mean, you don't know?

Gym Coordinator: I don't know.

Me: Well, I really want to buy it. How can I buy it if I don't know the price?

Gym Coordinator: I don't know.

Me: Maybe I should steal it. Or maybe I'll hire some ex-cons from your league to steal it for me.

Gym Coordinator: I don't know.

To be fair, Gym Coordinator was pretty preoccupied. In fact, right after the second "I don't know," he got up and walked quickly to his office.

I'm guessing he probably realized he forgot to put on his bulletproof vest. That, or Russian Mustache Chick just texted him and asked if he had seen her mustache comb anywhere.