#27 Pants That Are Just A Little Too Short

I’ve got long legs. Not a complaint, just a fact.

The complaint is for the pants, not the legs. Even people with normal proportions experience this pet peeve of mine, whether it comes while trying on khakis at the Gap or when you take a new pair of jeans out of the dryer after washing them for the first time. Sometimes, they come up short.

Wearing a pair of pants that are just an inch or two shy of normal length is like walking around naked: it’s like everybody knows and is judging you for not covering yourself properly. The bare strip of ankle shines between your shoe and cuff, attracting more attention than Edward Cullen’s glittering skin in the sunlight.

And now everybody can see your mismatched socks.

When you sit down…game over. You pants shrink upwards about another 5 or 6inches, crippling you. If people didn’t notice it before, they sure as shootin’ do now.

If you own pants like these, give them to Goodwill NOW. They aren’t like those pairs that are a size too small that you keep in case you ever lose 10 pounds. Your legs will never shrink in length. You will never feel comfortable wearing these pants (the only exception to this is a pair of jeans, which in warm weather, you may cuff–but only slightly. You may run the risk of cuffing into capri-pant territory, which is almost worse. Sorry, no offense, but it’s true).

 

SPF,

Ginger Rage

#26 Overplayed Radio Songs

Whenever I’m feeling pensive (or just plain bored…) I start to think about humankind, and the vast accomplishments. Criticize humans all you want (I know I will), but for what is a short period of time relative to the existence of the earth, humans have certainly come a long way.

Look around, and marvel at the inventions that make your everyday life easier. Know that at some point, some person put in a tremendous amount of effort so that you won’t have to (…or they did it to get paid and get laid. Either way, the iPad is still one helluva gizmo).

That’s why I have come to detest radio stations aimed at my (youth) age group. The radio, once a groundbreaking and inspiring invention, has become bastardized by neanderthal frat boy disc jockeys and their love for the Billboard Top Ten.

Sure, maybe one of these songs was catchy the first few time you heard it. But then you hear it. And you hear it. Again. And again.

Now you hate it. You hate the DJs, you hate the radio. You wish it were never invented. If you never hear Katy Perry or Rihanna again, it will be too soon.

 

SPF,

Ginger Rage

*Note: If you really hate this as much as I do, try using Pandora Radio. It’s custom, but still spontaneous. Crucial.*

#25 Going to Sleep When It’s Light Out and Waking Up in the Dark

WHAT DAMN DAY IS IT??

Certainly we have all experienced the phenomenon of the nap-time-warp. Sometimes when you lay down to rest your eyes “for only a minute or two, I swear…” those minutes turn into hours.

You fall asleep with the sun streaming in through the windows and birds chirping, peaceful and serene. Within the span of your nap, however, the world changes.

You wake up dazed and confused…it’s pitch black outside and dead quiet. Any concept of time that you had prior to this nap is completely thrown out of whack; it takes at least three solid minutes of staring at a clock to figure out what day it is and how long you have slept for.

Then you’re going to bed in a few hours anyway, so basically you just wasted an entire day. It’s like a time machine, but without a destination.

Oops.

 

SPF,

Ginger Rage

#24 The Smell of Nursing Homes

If I’m being honest, I don’t really care for old people. Mostly because a lot of them are cranky, but also just because they kinda scare me. The saggy skin, diapers, missing teeth, diapers, veiny hands, diapers, and scraggly hair give me the willies, I just can’t help it. It makes my stomach turn to think that one day I’ll be that person.

This is one of the reasons that going to nursing homes is the worst.

Dozens of senior citizens (and hundreds of diapers) in the same building at one time; what a frightening thing. It probably wouldn’t be nearly as bad if there weren’t a rancid stench hanging perpetually in the stale air. As soon as you walk through the doors it hits

you like a wave, and immediately you know that your clothes will smell like this the entire day.

It’s a combination of old cafeteria food, moldy potpourri, orthopedic shoes, wheelchair grease, denture cream, and urine. These singularly gross things unite to form an odor so funky that I do believe it suffocates these geriatric tenants. Forget about dying of old age in their sleep, cause of death: asphyxiation.

 

SPF,

Ginger Rage

#23 Getting Caught While Sneaking to Better Seats

It’s just embarrassing.

Listen, paying over $100 to see a sports team or a band is highway robbery. I don’t care how good they are (not to mention the fact that they charge you an arm and a leg for a hot dog). So naturally, I’m the kind of person that will buy the cheapies—you know, the nosebleed seats that nobody else really wants. Honestly, I don’t really mind it. There’s more leg room anyway.

But it also stands to reason that if I see a few seats down there in the front that are unoccupied, I’m gonna want to take them. So I stealthily climb down from the nosebleeds, exit the section as to pretend I am a newcomer, and re-enter briskly, heading for the good seats as though I belong there. It is my firm belief that if you walk quickly and with enough determination, nobody will ever question you. So, I settle in, relishing in the fact that I just conned the stadium out of a few bucks. I mean, come on. Nobody’s using the seats, so it’s no big deal, right?

WRONG.

The prehistoric usher ambles over and eyes me suspiciously. I look nonchalant, pretending to concentrate on the game. Then he drops the bomb: “Excuse me Miss, can I see your ticket?” 

I gulp. “Uh, yeah. Sure.” Reluctantly, I hold out my ticket, expertly covering the section number with my finger. No matter. He snatches it from me.

“Oh, no. Your seats are up there,” he says, gesturing to the deserted abyss hundreds of feet above us. Now this is the truly embarrassing part, because you can never admit that you were trying to sneak to better seats; you have to try and pretend like you’re lost, or somehow misread the number on the ticket.

“Oh. Uh, really? I thought…I just…the number…yeah.” Then comes the red-faced walk of shame (or more accurately, the climb of shame) back to your real seats.

Apparently the preservation of the empty good seats is crucial to the structural integrity of the stadium. Who knew?

 

SPF,

Ginger Rage

#22 Writing With Tiny Pieces of Chalk

In grade school, only the Chosen Ones were allowed to write on the chalkboards. Standing up there before the class, you were immediately catapulted to VIP status as soon as that chalk hit the board. And even though you knew your chalkboard handwriting was nowhere near as neat and smooth as the teacher’s—let’s face it, often you would return to your seat and realize that your writing went downhill like an Olympic skiier—that chalk still feels like a magic wand in your 8-year-old hand.

Unless you got the scraps.

Yes, the selfish teacher would often save the long, elegant stick of chalk for him or herself, leaving you with the barely-there stubs. Suddenly, your cloud of privilege bursts; now you are just a shrimpy little kid who is trying not to scratch their fingernails on the chalkboard as the piece of chalk rapidly vanishes with each letter.

Writing with a small piece of sidewalk chalk is no picnic either, here you have two choice: you can either pinch the tiny grain of chalk and run the risk of broken nails and bloody knuckles when it slips, or palm the chalk and rub it against theground blindly, hoping to god you’re coloring inside the lines.

I say just toss those suckers out and pick out a fresh piece. Or better yet, throw them at the back of the teacher’s head*; serves them right for giving you chalk-leftovers.

 

SPF,

Ginger Rage

*Note: I do not advocate violence in schools…wait until the school day ends, then sneak up on them while they are walking to their cars.

#21 Bad Snow

Some people love winter.

For the rest of us normal people, the months between November and April mean an epidemic of dangerous roads, outrageous heating bills, itchy woolen sweaters and pale, pasty skin.

Though by the end of winter everyone is certainly sick of it, snow is one of the wonders of winter. Sure, it’s cold, but it’s also soft, white, and malleable. Most of the time.

The first snowfall of the season has the power to captivate millions: people stop what they are doing to stare out the window and gaze at the sky in wonderment. Suddenly, winter doesn’t seem so terrible. So you put on your snow gear (no small feat) and head outside to play. You bend down and scoop some snow and begin to shape it into a ball. But wait….

…it’s bad snow.

The white powder crumbles like flour and suddenly your standing there with empty hands as it falls back to the ground. Speechless, you realize that you had better just go back inside. Forget about a snowball fight, let alone building a snowman. This useless dust will defy any sort of force you place on it, and is just a detriment to society.

You can thank Mother Nature for this one.

 

SPF,

Ginger Rage

#20 Substituting the Word “Stupid” with “Gay” or “Retarded”

I could launch into a whole thing like “what, are you saying gay people are stupid?” or “how would you feel if you were retarded and people said that about you?” You know, the kinds of things that moms say.

Well, I’m not a mom, and I still think it’s wrong. This trend was started by some narrow-minded little punk whose sole purpose in life is to try to make his friends/followers laugh. He wants to assert his superiority by putting down anything that is remotely different; targeting things that he believes to be weak.

Here’s a message for those people:

It doesn’t make you sound cool.

It’s offensive.

Stop doing it.

‘Nuf said.

 

SPF,

Ginger Rage

#19 That Kid Who Asks the Teacher If There’s Homework

Thanks buddy, we owe you one.

And by “one,” I mean one swift kick in the groin.

After an entire lesson of staring listlessly at the chalkboard (all the while stealing sidelong glances at the clock, counting down the minutes), finally freedom approaches. We’re in the home stretch, we can see the end…then we trip at the finish line. Or more correctly, the race was sabotaged.

Thanks to you, class overachiever, all of our fantasies of running around the neighborhood playing Hide and Seek and Red Rover fall spectacularly to pieces as you suddenly remind our wonderful teacher that they have forgotten to assign homework.

“Alright class, we’ll end there for today…Have a good weekend!”

“Wait…Do we have homework?”

Collective groan and simultaneous death stare.

Our little teacher’s pet shrinks in their seat, but it’s too late–the damage is done. A reading assignment here, a few math problems there. These seemingly small things effectively seal their fate.

This kid is inevitably in for a rough gym class–several dodgeballs thrown mercilessly, violating the head-safety rule. They will surely develop into the selfsame monster, that, in high school and college, positively destroys a test curve, skewing the average and crippling our hopes for a good grade.

Let me ask you, Teacher’s Pet, was that extra math assignment worth everybody else hating your guts? And . . .

Do you feel lucky?

 

SPF,

Ginger Rage

#18 Weak Showers

It’s like trying to wash your hair in the rain.

Nothing is worse than stepping into a shower and discovering that the water pressure is weaker than your grandma (no offense, Nana).

How is it possible that in this day and age, where you can watch an episode of Entourage off of an iPod the size of a stick of gum, that a shower can still perform so badly?

The slow trickle of tepid water coming from your shower head is no security for the fact that you’re just standing there——–naked. It’s super uncomfortable, and frankly, quite cold.

You don’t even feel clean afterwards, it’s like taking a bath…only it isn’t soothing and relaxing.

So, good luck getting all of the shampoo out of your hair…you’ll need it.

SPF,

Ginger Rage