"Don't call it a comeback" (is a line in an LL Cool J song)

Hi, my name is KP, and I am an unreliable blogger.  I know it.  You know it.  Former GOP presidential hopeful Rick Santorum knows it.  A few months ago, after another unannounced hiatus, I vowed not to let it happen again.  I promised an uninterrupted stream of observational humor, biting commentary, and intellectual masturbation.

I lied.

To make matters worse, I even knew I was lying on some level.  So it was a crackhead promise.  I didn't have many fully-formed ideas on deck.  More than that, I did not have the pure indignant bile to keep spewing witty criticism and linguistically-acrobatic dick jokes like Eminem if he hadn't dropped out of high school (and thus became cooler and more successful than God).  That's right, I am comparing myself to His Shadiness.  And this is my Recovery, my comeback, my return to the game.

Back in the hizzay, or whatever cool kids say now.

Do you know what I found out when I finally logged onto my account for the first time in a month?  I still had readers, inexplicably.  Despite not posting a single word in 30 days, over 350 people had stopped to check in.  Or one really desperate netizen visited roughly 12 times per day.  Either way, it is flattering.  I guess some people can't get enough of my brainal leakage.  Thank you, whoever you are, and I apologize for my relapse (let the Eminem references be unbounded).

So, what am I offering in penance for my sin of sloth?  How about . . .

A brief treatise on awesome things.

Bet you didn't see that coming, did you, fuckers?  I am not going to criticize (much).  I am not going to scoff (excessively).  I am not going to nitpick (more than necessary for the sake of journalistic objectivity).  No, this little monograph is going to be positive, reflecting my new view of the world.  Hardened?  Yes.  Self-aware?  Of course.  Unapologetic?  Always.  But scathingly pessimistic?  Not until something new pisses me off royally.  Let's see how it goes.

For starters, there's this:

Electrified brass knuckles.  Just say it out loud.  Electrified.  Brass.  Knuckles.  Granted, they appear to be made from some non-conductive poly-carbon fiber, but that just makes them even more space-age and badass.  Your enemies will metaphorically shit themselves when they see you slip on these instruments of pain, then literally shit themselves as they receive the brunt of 95,000 volts special-delivered by your right hook.  Naturally, you will have to christen your newly-empowered fists with suitable epithets like the Right Hand of Doom or the Nemean Cestus (just skip to the 3:00 mark to see it in action).

Like good ol' deicide-happy God of War Kratos there, you will soon be dealing out justice with your glowing blue five-finger Mary.  Whether or not your enemies will explode violently remains to be seen.  What mad genius suckled on the lore of Marvel and DC came up with the stun-knux I don't know, but odds are he read this issue of Batman:

*Insert your own obligatory homoerotic joke here.*

I don't have a bastard clue what's going on in these panels, but, yeah, suffice it to say, this device was born in the fictional mean streets of Gotham City, so it will probably serve you well.  Knuckle up and happy fisticuffs!

Then there is spider-silk body armor.  No, that is not just some slick nickname thought up by savvy marketers, it is a literal description of the next generation in protective gear.  Scientists - presumably the kind you see in movies, as opposed to the boring, AIDS-researching kind - have long known that the humble spider's webbing is, milligram for infinitesimal milligram, insanely strong, while being brain-fuckingly lightweight and flexible.  Yes, I just coined that term.  You're welcome.  How strong is it?  Well, the average spider dragline has ten times the durability of Kevlar.  You know, the petroleum-based product used to make bullet-proof vests and military-grade body armor.  The trouble was convincing our arachnid friends to weave us suits of sticky invulnerability.

C'mon, guys, you totally owe us one.  Let's just forget that whole Raid thing.

Cue the silkworm, a less-badass and sexy member of the arthropoda phylum (that's a word of the day, noobs).  Before you dismiss this lowly creature, recall that it metamorphoses into the silkmoth.  You know who's a silkmoth?  Fucking Mothra, the only Japanese daikaiju monster to take down Godzilla, that's who.  Once the geneticists (those lab-coated types from Jurassic Park) had finished dicking around with tomato plants, bacteria, and even goats, it occurred to them to try splicing the silk-producing genes of spiders into the DNA of organisms that already spin silk.  It should come as little surprise that, when you give our allies the silkworms a little injection of orb-weaver DNA, you get the kind of mass-produced, kickass fiber needed to create complete suits of supple, nigh-indestructible armor.  Now, it's worth noting that this is probably still a few years off as scientists work out the details and make it cost-efficient, but once they do, the streets are ours.  Don't believe me?  Read the official, cut-and-dry nerdy article that erroneously attributes a super-suit to Spider-Man (really, and you guys are supposed to be geeks?) here.

Finally, does anyone remember a little trilogy of 80s films called collectively Back to the Future?  It is now almost 30 years old, which kind of makes me want to cry, but I am betting a few of you retro kids are aware of its existence.  Part 2 takes place largely in the ultra-distant year of 2015 when unforeseeable leaps in technology, like wearing two neckties at once, have become commonplace and the Japanese make all the coolest shit.  Well, we are now ahead of schedule on that revolution, because Honda recently announced they have built a flying car.

Would you expect it to look any other way?

For you laypeople out there, that means a car that moves through the air instead of on the ground.  Hailing from an advanced design studio in Pasadena, California, and probably the result of reverse-engineered alien hardware, this concept vehicle "utilizes turbo vacuums and external air-flow to regenerate tank pressure for extended range and increased boost for an estimated 100 miles." To be honest, I have no idea what most of that means, but does it not sound like the specs for a goddamn pod-racer?  Further details about this piece of awesome are surprisingly scarce, even on the interwebs, but I take it on faith that this car is sweeter than two 1985 Trans Ams, with phoenixes emblazoned on the hoods.  Future-scientists have been quoted as saying, scientifically, this shit is bananas.  My logical side tells me there is no way a benevolent universe would allow the rubbernecking, tailgating, sexting, lane-ignorant public access to an aerial version of Speed Racer's Mach 5, but that voice of reason is being drowned out by the adolescent shrieks of selfish wish-fulfillment. At only 800 pounds, the vehicle is most likely not very durable . . . until we lace its chassis shell with ultralight spider-silk, that is.

So, if you haven't figured it out yet, I saw The Avengers this week, meaning thoughts of superheroism are running through my fevered mind.  And, like every other geek on the Internet, I had to find a way to talk about it.  Combine the above Stark Industries/Wayne Enterprises technologies with a six-week course at the local taekwondo dojo/dry-cleaner's/fusion curry house, and you've got a recipe for sweet vigilante justice.

And whoever said the world doesn't need more heroes never tasted sweet justice.

Just add an angst-ridden backstory, preferably with tragic family deaths, to forge your hero identity.  Because, let's be realistic, it is only a matter of time before these advancements fall into the wrong hands and the world is facing a self-styled Dr. Doom.  Or at least Super Mugger and the Indestructible Douchebag.  Who will you turn to then, America?  The world will cry out "Save us!" and I'll whisper, "Hell, yes."

Really, what could go wrong?

KP, out.

Things That Probably Have a Good Reason, But I Will Never Get

Some things I am destined never to understand.  Like Japanese television programming.  If this blog hasn't taught you yet, there are also a lot of things out there in the world that make little sense in the light of common sense or reason, but still exist because the people who made them and/or the target demographic are as bright as elephant dung.  However, I am willing to admit that not everything I consider counter-intuitive necessarily implies dipshittery on the part of someone else.  There is probably a logical explanation.  But I'll be damned if I can figure it out.

Sitting down at a restaurant when you have kids.

This is one of those things I actually hope I never understand.  I get it, children, especially the small, nimble variety, are a handful, making shrill noises, scurrying around and bouncing off things to stay just out of reach, like a rat-dog or monkey.  And that's assuming they are not pelting you with fistfuls of Cheerios or die-cast toy trucks.  Then there are car-seats to transform into their alternate mode of infant-containment-unit.

Honestly, who would put their baby in something that is so obviously a Decepticon?

Children must be passed back and forth between all adults at least three times; the mobile pre-humans corralled and forced into various seats following a five-minute debate who can sit beside whom; and diaper-bags, strollers, backpack carriers, and unidentifiable trappings resembling bombproof-suits situated, re-positioned, and finally jammed into any available space.  All I want to do as I hover ten feet away, waiting for the ritual to conclude before approaching (since it invariably consumes all of the parents' attention), is yell, "Just sit the fuck down."  But here's the part I really don't get: it seems as if, no matter how many or how few imps are involved, the presence or lack of the baby-toting paraphernalia notwithstanding, it still takes five minutes just to sit down.  It's as if the mere presence of the crotch-dumplings slows down the space-time flow, or at least parents' perception of it.  I assume this is the same phenomenon that occurs when old age sets in.

Visual cues for the blind and/or braille in odd places.

Now, just to clarify before the torches and nooses come out, I am not mocking the blind, although I do snicker every time I hear an advertisement for a local window-dressing shop called House of Blinds.  (C'mon, it's kind of funny.)  But some things just make me scratch my head, such as this:

At my bank's drive-through ATM.

Who is using these?  To be honest, I can't say I have ever seen a blind person using a teller machine in any capacity, drive-through ones even less so.  And a headphone jack?  In case you are, what, so blind you can't read braille?  Even if that were possible, you still have to accurately press buttons labeled in braille.  So it must be for people who are both blind and mentally-challenged (multi-alternatively-enabled?).  And driving cars to access money.  I am guessing all businesses just use the same generic model of ATM, whether it's for a drive-through or not, but it is always a weird thing to see when you ponder the implications.

Ha, trick question!  Got you, tax-defrauders!

There is truly no way to justify this, but it appears on almost every online tax form.  Blind people can do some pretty amazing things, despite their handicap, er, equal-difference-non-impairment . . . thing.  But I do not understand how they could be filling out their own taxes on the computer.

*Pictured: Just an average, everyday visually-impaired citizen, the muthafuckin' "I-can-kick-a-dozen-Yokuza's-asses-but-can't-use-Facebook" Daredevil.

I am forced to assume this is simply a poor choice of words on the part of the tax-form copywriter (sweet Gutenberg, does that sound like a rewarding career).  It should probably run something like, "Is this person blind?"  Then again, I am not blind, so what do I know?

Books for extremely specific things (especially this one).

Maybe the dogs are the ones taking the pictures.

Publishing a book is expensive.  As this goes to print, digitally and for free, the Encyclopaedia Britannica is ceasing all physical production of its 244-year-old tomes of accumulated wisdom.  Readers and tablets like Kindle and Nook were invented in an attempt to trick a vapid, technologically-obsessed, increasingly-illiterate public into reading books again, under the assumption they would mistake it for the Internet.  Aside from the megalithic Barnes & Noble, nary a bookstore can stay in business without offering an espresso bar, WiFi, and cut-rate crack cocaine out the back door.  So, especially in this day and age, the printing of a book on honest-to-Gaia, murdered-tree paper must be economically-viable, marketable to a mass audience.

And this is considered a sound investment?  Dog Photography for Dummies?  There are people who can't figure out how to take pictures of dogs?  Because they're really rare, elusive, seldom-photographed beasts, akin to Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, or J.D. Salinger (how's that for an obtuse reference?).  Hell, I wouldn't have thought there were enough total people out there trying to take pictures, successfully or not, of our four-legged friends to justify the publication of such a guide.  I would think those aspiring photographers who just can't seem to snap a decent picture of Fido could look to the childless women of Facebook who treat their Pugadoodleyork rat-dogs as babies and post images of said pets accordingly.  But there must be demand if the book got printed, which sort of saddens me for other reasons.

If any of you can shed light on these mysteries for me, I would be much obliged.

Man up

Yes, I know, I have not posted since Ron Paul was a relevant GOP presidential candidate.  I offer no excuses.  I could feed you some ambiguous, intentionally-mysterious hints at what I have been doing to make it sound cool and pardon my lapse, but that's not what this blog is about.  It's about me and my opinions on totally asinine shit.  So I won't bother you with tedious details about why I haven't been writing.  Somewhere along the way, I have forgotten to be a responsible blogger (if those exist).  My apologies, loyal readers.  Let's move on.

Happy International Women's Day!  What, you didn't know that was today?  You didn't know that holiday existed?  Well, I did, and it's totally not because it was the Google Doodle of the day.  Shame on you, sexist pigs!  And it just happens to coincide roughly with the release of world-renowned ultra-prick Taylor Max's third (really, third, America?) book, Hilarity Ensues, which, to be fair, it probably does.  For about six pages.  Then, I feel quite confident, it becomes just another string of dirty, mean-spirited, sensationalized anecdotes of dubious authenticity from the life of a loser whose fame clock is hitting 00:14:59.

The kind of guy who thinks this joke never gets old.  How clever.

What sort of name is that anyway?  Tucker Max?  How about Chotchbag Max?  It sounds like the kind of online handle a 12-year-old "extreme" rollerblader would adopt.  So, I am the anti-Tucker Max.  By that, I mean I am not a narcissistic, chauvinistic, complete douche-tool (much).  Notably, I'm also not famous.  As a writer, I am perfectly aware that embellishment and hyperbole are the weapons of mass comedy, and being offensive can be funny.  Or at least I hope so.  Thus, I would like to hope Max's authorial persona, which reads like a stock character from (take your pick) Animal House/Revenge of the Nerds/PCU/Old School/whatever-the-modern-remake-is-called, is a gross exaggeration.  But let's be honest: in all likelihood, it's not.

And this is a fucking shovel.  Get it?

So, with that needlessly involved and lengthy introduction in mind, it's time for another revision of the rules governing male behavior, the Gentlemen's Agreements.  I hearby call this meeting to order.

High-fives

Like many of society's more insidious ills, we probably have the 80s to thank for this one.  The slapping of elevated palms was around well before that, I assume, but it was not until the era of neon glitz, cocaine, and laughably-stupid Reaganomics that it became the go-to gesture for any sort of masculine celebration.  More specifically, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are, perhaps, to blame for the rabid proliferation of this phenomenon in the modern world.

It is the only sin they ever committed.

In conducting research for this article (yes, I do that), I even found out April 21 is National High-Five Day.  That.  Is.  Pathetic.  Nowadays, high-fives are the equivalent of a participation ribbon in your elementary school field day.  We need to let this die.  At this point, a high-five means about as much as blinking.  Nothing says, "My maturity is permanently stunted!" like going for the palm-connection with a bro because you ordered something mutually-awesome in the Taco Bell drive-thru.  As a matter of principle, I do not distribute high-fives except for very momentous achievements, in an attempt to reestablish their once-lauded status.  If it helps, anytime you feel the urge to call for a high-five, just remember it will never, ever be as sweet as . . .

. . . this.  Yeah.

Stop being a dickhead (shock, right?)

Boy, am I going to catch shit for this one.  Ladies, just remember this: I am on your side.  As my good friend Dr. Watson once commented in regard to my stance on women, "He disliked and distrusted the sex, but he was always a chivalrous opponent."  Or maybe that was about Sherlock Holmes.  And they might both be fictional characters.  Either way.  My point is, no matter what your personal ignorant thoughts on the ovaried ones, treat them civilly.  As I have noted previously, I am pretty old-school, but this is one of those times when I think people would truly benefit from following my lead.  Quit being a Fucker Max.  To refer back to my earlier visual aid:

Oh, I get it, it's funny because you treat all females like anonymous receptacles for your seed who are lining up for the honor!  Well-played!

Seriously, how old are you?  The war between the sexes, the longest-running cold war in the history of ever, will probably never abate, but we can promote the detente by not being dickheads to the other half of our species.  For every Snooki, termagant, and backstabbing uber-twat out there, another 392 women are essentially respectable, decent human beings.  Yes, there are genuine bitches and sluts out there, but acting like they are the representative examples of their gender is akin to saying Germans are, by and large, the Third Reich.  Only not as funny.

Take that, rich and diverse cultural history of a nation!

Beyonce may be an obnoxious, pretentious celebrity who seems to revel in telling men off, yet you can't deny her man-slamming music is a product of women getting the shaft (damn, couldn't resist) from us.  But, while we're on the subject, you can call a girl a "slut" when you can verify that she has had some manner of sexual contact with more partners than you have.  Maybe.  Until then, shut the hell up.  That is all.

KP, out.

A snack to tide you over

While I am working on a few full-fledged articles, here's a nice collection of the most random crap I have found on the Internet and in real-life lately.  Enjoy!

So, it's open to hobos, as long as they fill out Victorian-era paperwork?

"Online dating is stupid."  (Actual caption on this sidebar ad.)

Is it wrong the first thing I thought was Hey, that's not authentic Roman garb?

Online educational grants seem to be mostly targeted toward the bearded demographic.  Also, apparently, ageless Santa Claus-types.

And superpowered Condoleeza Rices with head-police-lights.  (Sorry, just had to use this again).  Seriously, who are they targeting?

Coming soon . . . Angry Birds: The Novelization?  (I kind of want to cry).

Then again, this was once considered legit.

The Hoff.  A colossal cartoon snake.  Only one will emerge with a career.  (Smart money is on the snake).

Pray for a shanking.

Now, don't you feel dirty?

6 Reasons Online Surveys Are Meaningless

It's an unrecognized epidemic in this country, an ungodly hybrid offspring of American obliviousness and the social media boom, the "Fugly, Retarded, Redheaded Stepchild," if you will (that being the scientifically-preferred term).  Online surveys.  Sure, they have been around for quite a while, but you, as a savvy netizen, could spot the telltale signs it was bogus - words were misspelled or atrociously punctuated, an unidentifiable cartoon creature was daring you to click it, or the whole popup flashed and shook in an infantile bid to seize your attention (premised on the assumption that you, like a toddler, would inevitably touch a shiny, moving object).  But, hey, what did it matter?  Nothing actually rode on those surveys, which were mostly just attempts to get you to click on a link and possibly pay for something you didn't need or want.

You can totally trust anything pushed by a spokesthing called 'the Annoying Thing.'

Times have changed.  In the flurry to stay connected to absolutely everything pointless absolutely all the time, even if theoretically you really don't want to be connected to things like flash-mobs or Pauly D, the unsuspecting populace has bought into the conceit of these polls' validity.  This is because the powers behind the digital revolution (think of them as a combination of the Matrix, the Dark Side of the Force and that giant floating eyeball of fiery doom in Lord of the Rings) have subliminally implanted the idea that reality is only real if it is trackable, quantifiable.  And the masses have taken the bait.  Actually, it's becoming hard to tell who's putting on who, and whether the companies behind online surveys are buying their own bullshit, but corporations and the marketers who work for them have decided, presumably, that it doesn't really matter: you go with the trend because it's popular, not because it has any relevance or truth.

*Censored to protect the guilty (me).

Yes, these are "legitimate" polls from my Facebook sidebar.

Recently, this trend has assumed the form of customer-feedback surveys, which, if you haven't noticed, are distributed by fucking everyone now, including the homeless guy who accosted you for 73 cents and a half-smoked Pall Mall.  While I am no advertising guru, I did take some classes on statistics and research methodology, and my Bullshit-Meter is pretty finely-tuned, of course.  And I can tell you most of these polls are about as scientific as throwing darts at a spinning wheel of possibilities.  While blindfolded.  And hammered.  And the darts are carrot-sticks.  Aside from extremely vague, sweeping generalities, you are not going to get any actionable data from them, for several reasons . . .

1) They are self-selective.

Nobody has to take these surveys, and no specific criteria ensures that a wide, representative range of people will.  It is random, but not in the way you want as a statistician.  You want a random sample from across your entire spectrum, not just coincidentally-high numbers from the 'R' and 'G-BI' parts of ROY-G-BIV.

In other words, never trust a fucking rainbow to do shit itself.

2) They discriminate against all kinds of demographics.

You know who doesn't use a com-pu-tor much?  Your great-grandmother Gladys.  Try convincing her to - on her own, assuming she has a computer and Web access and any familiarity with "the Google" - go online and take this survey about a place she barely remembers visiting anyway.  Or what about people without regular computer access?  Scoff all you want, there are still plenty of citizens even in the Godblessed, good ol' US of A who don't have that, and they must use their coveted half-hour of Internet time at the public library to work around the porn-filters.

While trying to hide a boner in a public environment.

Guess who else doesn't respond to surveys?  People like me, who consider them a waste of time.  That means precisely jack-shit about my opinion of the company in question, I just don't feel the need to provide a detailed workup of my experiences with said company.  I still may go to them and spend more money there than several survey-subjects, so whose opinion matters more?

3) They disproportionately represent negative responses.

Quick: which are you more likely to do, compliment or bitch about a stranger?  What if it was also relatively challenging and time-consuming to do so?  And there was no particular reason to?  Well, that is exactly what it's like taking these surveys.  How awesome does your experience with a business need to be that you are going to take home the receipt and, within the allotted 3 days, go online, find the website, enter all of the codes and identifying info, then sit through a 12-page survey of repetitive, inane queries?

The food was excellent, I loved the ambiance, and then my server blew me.  Keep up the good work!

In short, most customers aren't that motivated, because - spoiler alert! - they don't care.  But you know what does light a fire under their asses?  Anger.  Indignation.  A perceived slight or grievous wrong.  Pure vindictive vitriol is the best fuel to keep a person slogging through a seemingly endless stream of asinine questions.  Yes, it is important to address genuine complaints, but thinking you are going to get an accurate overall picture of your company's customer-satisfaction rate from these polls is akin to querying the magic 8-ball until it gives you the reply you want, except backwards.

Nope, wrong again!  *Shake.*

4) They are usually inadequate, poorly-worded, or redundant.

How many times when taking a survey, any survey, have you said to yourself, "Wow, it's really amazing how perfectly this set of predetermined responses accurately represents my precise thoughts and feelings on every subject, omitting no potential alternative?"  If you are at all like me, you can count the number of times on one hand, at best.  Or more likely your tongue.  I will wager the tally is far larger in the, "Wait, what the fuck does this question even mean?" column.  That's the bitch of language: it means something slightly different to each person, especially morons, which is who you are courting with these surveys for the most part.  Add to this the fact that many of them essentially ask the same thing over and over.

When language becomes a barrier, you increase the risk of it skewing your numbers, because subjects either don't understand what they are being asked or grow tired of it and simply start clicking to get the shit over with.  Or they just quit.

5) They do not account for repeated results.

There is nothing to stop the same customer from taking the survey over and over again.  In fact, given the relentless ever-mounting pressure most companies put on their employees to garner quantifiable results, they are actually demanding repeat respondents. Not only does this become difficult if you work somewhere that the same people regularly visit ("Can you please go online and rave about me for the sixth time this month, ma'am?  Thanks!"), it wholly undermines the validity of the poll numbers.  Yes, you can track when people repeatedly take the damn thing, but are you really going to write filtering algorithms to account for them differently?  My bet is no.  There is a reason you aren't allowed to vote as many times as you want in an election.

Because Gary Busey would go to the polls enough times to elect himself president, that's why, and you damned well know it.

6) They bribe you to take them.

Hardly a one of these surveys fails to promise the chance of some reward for taking it.  Otherwise, seriously, why would you bother?  Are you inbred?  But enticing respondents with free food or prizes or cash or handjobs automatically means these people are probably not there first and foremost to supply honest, thoughtful opinions.  They want the handjobs.  Who doesn't?

Ok, fine, finger-bangs for you.

Some people will take their time and try to be sincere, some will be malicious and scatter their answers all over the map simply to fuck with the numbers, and some will just rush through it as quickly as they can, because they have no vested interest in the outcome aside from getting the fabulous prize.  It could be argued that any survey runs the same risk, but when you put a pot of gold at the end of the untrustworthy rainbow, you are giving the respondents one more reason to be less than truthful.

While these flaws may not all apply to each feedback survey, it only takes a few to undermine their integrity and thus usefulness.  That is the bitch about statistics.  The geniuses who came up these things may opine that somehow this massive mishmash of biases somehow average out to an accurate profile, with each oversight or blunder negating another, but the truth is fairly apparent: as "experts" in the field of schilling shit, they have figured out the easiest people to exploit are the ones who ask you to help them exploit their own customers.  So, they tout the superlative importance of constant user-feedback in the form of verified poll data, cite the explosive growth of social media awareness, and then warn the corporation contracting them that all of this is absolutely necessary to business success, despite the fact no business relied on this crap in the history of business prior to approximately 4 years ago.

So what?  you might be inclined to think.  What does it matter if the surveys suck worse at their jobs than George W. Bush?  Well, it really wouldn't, except that companies are now putting huge emphasis on them.  As in, these are being considered key indicators of business performance.  Trust me, I work for a franchise where this is the case.  And a mere lack of negative responses doesn't help.  Hell, even above-average marks do not count for us.  Only receiving the best possible scores constitutes a win in our column, which is like saying your sports team only moves up in the league standings if they beat the competition by a massive margin every game.

Sorry, Kobe, that's just not good enough.  Can't you score more points?

Anything else goes against us, as a store, as a team, and as individuals.  For the love of Gallup, we have a specific quota of survey responses we must accrue per month, otherwise we are failing, no matter what.  Our managers' bonuses rely in large part on the volume of traffic our marketing-provider's website sees.  Our budget is affected by this.  Our livelihoods are threatened over this: the masses filling out online surveys.  Not sales figures, not repeat business, not labor costs . . . surveys, the trump card, the I-Ching, end-all-be-all of performance measurement.  Surveys that in all probability don't even mean a goddamned thing.

Sure, the restaurant may look busy, but how can you truly know it's successful if they're not filling out surveys?

Oh, and some of these surveys even have the temerity to ask you, at the end, if you want to participate in future studies (ie. receive spam from the company for the remainder of your natural life).  A few will even invite you to sell out your family and friends for such "studies."  In other words, it's ultimately about how many people you can add to your company's mailing list, pure and simple.  Because, you know, e-mailing fliers is the only way any business has ever succeeded.

How to Win at a Restaurant

No matter how many times I outline the offenses committed by guests at restaurants (here, here, here, and here), I can always come up with examples of reprehensible behavior I have somehow failed to mention.  So, do you want to get in good with your server or bartender?  Want to be known as a preferred, platinum-status customer?  Just follow this simple guide, and you till get nothing but top-notch service from me.

Act like your birthday is a big deal.

Congratulations, you got yourself born.  It's really hard to do, from your perspective.  You deserve accolades, a parade of servers singing your paeans, and a meal free of charge (even I had to look up that word of the day, once upon a time).  You've earned it.

It's your party, cry if you want to - but, seriously, suck it up, bitch.

This one always draws a purposely-blank stare from me: "It's my/his/her birthday."  Guess what?  Nobody cares.  Would you genuinely give a rodent's posterior if I told you it was my birthday?  We are strangers to one another, so, despite the cheery and engaging persona I adopt at work, I'm really no different than the guy in front of you in line at the porn theater.  And, trust me, he feels no need to sing to you or offer you free food.  Neither do I.  You are not nine; it's time to get over the "my special day" bullshit.  I know the causal dining industry is at least partially responsible for perpetuating this nonsense, since they started and, to varying degrees, continue the whole dancing, singing monkey routine that gets parodied in movies like Waiting.

Ha, people I have never met before are being forced to sing "Happy Birthday" to me!  I am made of awesome!

Trust me, the employees loath and resent this shtick more than any media has portrayed.  We need to let it die.

Try to be funny.

No, really, I love a comedian.  Especially ones who make puns and references to the food on our menu or the generalities of working in restaurants.  It's so clever, insightful, and original, not at all redundant or moronic, especially when I have heard variations of the same riffs roughly, oh, 7,000 times before.  Believe me, we have all heard it all before.

As it happens, I've got a few zingers I would like to try out on you, too.

You may be tempted to think this rule does not apply to a comedic genius of your caliber.  Well, it does.  See if any of the following sounds familiar.

Sample Dialog 1

ME: Hi, my name is KP, I'll be helping you out today.
CUSTOMER: Oh, good, we need all the help we can get!  (laughs at own joke and looks to everyone else, myself included, to burst into uncontrolled fits of hysterics at their devastating wit)
ME: Ha, right.  Seriously, though, what do you want to drink?

Sample Dialog 2

ME: So, any questions I can answer for you?
CUSTOMER: Why is the sky blue? (winking at their cohorts, like they have totally stumped me)
ME: It's not.  The phenomenon is known as Rayleigh scattering, which means that, while most longer wavelengths of visible light go straight through the atmosphere, the short, blue-colored wavelengths are absorbed by gas particles and refract.  This causes the human eye to see the sky as blue.
CUSTOMER: *blank stare*
ME: Uh, I mean . . . because Jesus made it that way.

Sample Dialog 3

MY COWORKER: (at end of the meal) Any more refills?
CUSTOMER: Oh, if I have one more I'll float away!
MY COWORKER: What does that actually mean?
CUSTOMER: . . . I don't know.

Think of it this way: are you generally regarded as a truly amusing person?  Do you garner full-bellied laughs and snorty guffaws with your witty turns of phrase and keen observations on a regular basis?  Because if not, please don't try your jokes out on poor waitstaff, who are probably more jaded than the average prostitute.  It always reminds me of the unfortunate middle-aged mother from some podunk outskirt who decides to do open-mic standup comedy night in the city club because all of her friends assure her she's funny.  Except it's even more awkward for us, since we feel obligated to pander to you in exchange for money.  And if you do this explicitly because you know we feel this obligation, well, walk into oncoming traffic.

Act like I run the restaurant in any way.

There's nothing I enjoy more than being told how things should be done.  Because, honestly, not only do you probably know more about general restaurant-operation than anyone working there, but I as a server am empowered to implement changes whenever I see fit.  You think the chips should be free?  You got it, buddy!  A steak cooked until it's wood-pulp gray inside should be called "medium"?  Great idea!  When you order something you've never had before I should warn you that you might not like it?  Killer advice.  Things were cheaper in the past than they are now?  Astute observation, my friend.

What you have to understand about the vast majority of chain eateries is that each store gets approximately .00001% control at the local level.  They don't set prices, determine the menu selection, or devise promotional strategies.  All of that is dictated by higher powers that usually reside in another state entirely, and concern themselves with the individual branches of their company about as much as you worry over the individual cells in your body.

Except Corporate America isn't even kind enough to drown us in alcohol.

That being the case, imagine how much say servers are given.  So, no, I can't just "make it happen for you," and if by some miracle I can, you had better reward appropriately.

Pretend I'm not there, especially right after asking for special treatment.

Do you remember the Morlocks from H.G. Wells' sci-fi classic, The Time Machine?  They were the grotesque, expendable mutant mole-men bred for manual labor and serving the elite.  Well, that is more or less what we are.  We enjoy being treated as such, and it's not like we demand acknowledgement or appreciation.  We barely exist, after all.  So, as I tell your spouse the seven side dishes we have, despite them being listed in the menu, please ask me the exact same question when I come to you without batting an eye.  It lets me know just how little you are paying attention.

I cannot count how many times I have just finished passing out food and say something along the lines of, "I'll be right back with some refills on drinks, and do you need anything else?" only to have someone rattle their 1/3 full cup at me and say, "More Diet Coke."  Oh, really?  Good luck with that, because I'm obviously too much of a cretinous imbecile to handle such complex tasks as the one I literally just told you I was going to do.

Just like yours is going to be for a while now, ass-hat.

Even better are the times when I walk up to a table, address them, and receive absolutely no response whatsoever.  These people get a courtesy five-second window before I walk away without another word, and you can bet I'm going to see to a few other duties before I think of returning.

Treat all establishments as essentially the same.

If all these other points didn't make it obvious, you are a pretty goddamned important person.  Maybe not Trump-level, but at least on par with several lesser reality TV stars, so it's only natural things should conform to your expectations.  Why should you have to modify your behavior?  How could a family-friendly, international franchise not stock cans of Natural Light like your good ol' boy NASCAR bar in buttfuck Egypt?  Or offer the food you simply assumed they make without giving the menu a cursory glance?

These servers will pretend to find you charming and attractive.  I will not.

In short, know your surroundings.  Not all restaurants are created equal, and you need to recognize the level of the place you are.  Recently, I got to experience a guest-interaction that illustrated this perfectly, yet another Fucktarded Moment in Restauranting.  If you didn't know, I work at a middling casual dining chain where the servers wear jeans and uniform t-shirts, and the costliest item on the menu is around $18.00.  My customer, however, was apparently under the impression we were 4-star dining in disguise.

To kick off the night, she became incensed that her beer, a Blue Moon, and her husband's martini did not automatically come with any garnishes.  And when I say "incensed," I mean "disproportionately, self-righteously pissed off."  About fucking fruit.  (A) If you think you are so cultured and epicurean, you ought to know beer is not something you garnish - ask any brewer or true connoisseur.  (B) Your husband didn't even specify if he wanted a gin or vodka martini and seemed slightly put off that I asked; in a restaurant where people will unwittingly order a virgin margarita (making it straight sweet-sour mix on ice), I consider this a warning sign and try to avoid doing anything that might surprise them and thus "ruin" their dinner.

"Excuse me, is there a lemon peel in my drink?"

Instead of saying these less-than-politic things, I calmly and nonchalantly explained that we don't bother with garnishes unless the guest requests it, assuring her I could produce said garnishes for them in a matter of seconds.  No dice.

Then, one of my coworkers failed to bring out appetizer plates with the basket of mozzarella sticks.  Anathema.  What were we, savages who ate deep-fried processed cheese product straight out of the serving dish?  My failure to instantly supply a second cup of marinara sauce from my magic hoard of limitless condiments was almost the final straw.

What caused her to snap - aside from, presumably, being a perpetual, vindictive, vehemently-miserable cuntrag - was that the meals didn't look at all like what she expected.  At this point, I refused even to say more than three consecutive words to the wicked bitch, allowing management to deal with the problem.  Needless to say, the entire meal was paid for by our company, despite there not being anything actually wrong, and the near-mute husband of this shrew still left me $5.00, because he obviously knows he married a vile demoness, but has been cowed into total acquiescence over time.

This incident exemplifies a guest who does not have a clue what their own status is, let alone that of the place they are visiting.  Clearly, she was under the impression she was rich and entitled, even though the restaurant I serve at is patently not for the well-to-do, and was rudely surprised to discover she got the same treatment as everyone else.  The difference was that most of them came in expecting that treatment, so they were not let down, or at least realized they were getting what they paid for.  If for whatever reason you want to spend only $30 on drinks, an appetizer, and two entrees when you dine out, understand that you are necessarily making some compromises, even sacrifices.  Deal with it.

KP, out.

You know who sucks at driving? Everyone else.

I reside in a United State where genuine winters happen.  To give you some perspective, people here actually wrap chains around their tires for better traction.  Chains.  Around their tires.  Yeah, like goddamned Ghost Rider.  It can be that brutal on any given day between November and March.

Here, this movie would have been entitled Wednesday Morning.

We're talking snow, sleet, ice, hail, and the occasional blizzard-thunderstorm (yes, it is real, and, yes, it is Thor-smiting-earth-awesome).  As such, you might think the locals would get used to such conditions and adapt to them, however, more than a few seem to be all about proving that homo sapiens has risen above evolution, and can act in direct contradiction to it.  This means aggressively pursuing extinction via the most expedient route available, and everyone knows the expressway is the fastest route anywhere. Maybe this is just natural selection's killswitch for over-successful species.  The problem is, I'm not particularly keen on vehicular manslaughter.  It's just not my style.  Forget the economy, someone needs to step up and start enforcing some serious wintertime driving reform.  If automobile enthusiasts are going to forget each year what winter was like the previous, it's past time for a reality check.  "Driving too fast for conditions" and "reckless driving" are actual criminal offenses in most states, so I would recommend officers of the law start using them.

"Shit, I think the state troopers got a budget increase."

Yet, for reasons unknown, the promulgation of laws and their execution has not been yielded to me, so I am once again limited to registering a strongly-worded opinion on the matter.  My day will come.  In the meantime . . .

I get it: you have a 4-wheel-drive vehicle.  Your traction is superior to mine.  Yeehaw, git 'er done, and all that.  However, you are not piloting a Hovercraft, nor a rebel snowspeeder; the physics governing friction still apply to your vehicle, no matter how few miles it gets per gallon.  I have literally been behind a fucking multi-ton, 7.7-million horsepower dump trunk that fishtailed and spun out, so don't try to tell me your soccer mom "SUV" - a minivan in all but trim package - is capable of driving on black ice in whiteout conditions at 75 MPH.

As an exercise, see if you can spot the difference between these two roadways:

Figure (A)

Figure (B)

What's amazing (read: inconceivably retarded) to me is that people seem to confuse these on a regular basis.  If they aren't barreling along Figure (1) as though it's an open straightaway on the Autobahn midsummer, they are putzing down Figure (2) in some bizarre reversal of the Speed scenario, wherein their vehicle will explode if they accelerate above 17 MPH.  Or at least I assume that is the paranoid delusion under which they operate.  There is a happy medium here, people.  I have more sympathy for the latter, who at least err on the side caution, even if they still generally suck as human beings.

Some people just can't help it.

As for the former . . . well, not to be overly dickish, but I seriously wish minor accidents on every motorist who does this. No broken bones, just a little whiplash, a towing bill, and maybe $400 worth of body damage.  Except for the clueless, careless fuckwit who practically sideswiped my car as he passed it doing 15 over the regular-weather speed limit on an unplowed road.  Mr. Douchemaster Supreme can do a midair triple-axle on a hairpin turn and spontaneously combust upon impact, hopefully taking out another one of his kind in the process.  Please, God.  Whenever someone like this whips past me during a snowstorm, I assume they are (A) a mud-boggin,' two-trackin,' cousin-fuckin' redneck with a religious conviction about the superiority of their particular American truck brand, (B) a pompous, dual-Bluetooth-sporting jerkoff who's sure his "German-engineered" 4x4 can handle apocalyptic fire and brimstone on the road, or (C) . . .

In which case, drive as fast as you want, but you'll never outrun your shame.

Oh, and is it really too much to ask that you turn on your headlights?  I realize I have said this before, but it bears repeating: on an overcast day when that ice-cold bitch Mother Nature has covered every surface with six inches of crystalline peril, your white '99 Corolla barely registers in my peripheral vision.  On days such as this, you need to turn your lights on as much to help others see you as vice-versa.  You want to play ninja/Invisible Man/Predator, go put on a camouflage snowsuit and run around a wooded area, preferably one stalked by lots of nearsighted, overzealous game hunters.  Stay off my thoroughfares.

Which reminds me, if you simply must get onto my thoroughfares, don't be a complete jackass about it.  Think about it: the pavement is slick with slush, ice, accumulated snow, and probably the blood, pulped remains, and residual engine fluids from the last idiot like you.  This means that (1) my braking distance is significantly longer than normal, and (2) you cannot accelerate, especially from a dead-stop, as nimbly as usual.  So do not, for the love of Hermes (Greek patron god of travelers), try to dart out into traffic 30 feet ahead of me.  You know what my favorite is?  It's you pulling out in front of me when there isn't another car in sight, and waiting 2.3 seconds would yield a completely clear, safe roadway for you to accelerate on.  Ha, just kidding, you're a total fucking shit-thick moron who will get what's coming to him.

So, if you ever find yourself upside down in a ditch thanks to your own reckless driving, wondering which will be bigger, your hospital or repair bill, and you hear the eerie sound of laughter somewhere in the distance, it's not the concussion and associated brain damage - it is me, reveling in the karmic cycle that has landed you there.

*Not pictured: me, passing your stupid asses.

KP, out.