If you’re like me and have kids in college or teens on their way to higher education, then you probably are facing the same financial squeeze that we’re experiencing right now. Back when we scrimped and saved to pay for our kids’ Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, we weren’t really thinking that we’d have to pay about eight years worth of B’nai Mitzvahs to put both our kids through college. The good news is, our money woes have inspired this week’s column. Without further ado I present Go F**k Yourself Friday, the Finance Edition…
Go F**k Yourself Property Tax Bills…Just as we were getting ready to celebrate the New Year, that unmistakable blue bill wound up in my mailbox on December 31. Go F**k Yourself property tax manager who thought it would brighten my spirits to receive a whopping bill the day before I started 2019. Seriously, you couldn’t wait until January 2? Once I send in a kidney to cover this bill, I cannot wait until the next one arrives in April – just in time for tax season. Oh, and now that we can no longer write off part of our property tax bill due to the changes in our tax laws, I hate you even more. Here’s hoping that in a few years we can sell our house and move somewhere like Maine where they have no taxes and cheap lobster.
Go F**k Yourself FAFSA…If you are a parent of a college bound student, then FAFSA has become the bain of your existence. While I have a masters degree and my husband has an MBA, we always seem to screw up this application year after to year to the point where it always gets rejected at the 11th hour. This time, we’ve filed the wrong IRS form for our daughter from 2016 even though it’s the only form we filed for her. Huh? With tuition rates skyrocketing at colleges across the country, applying for FAFSA is worse than a visit to an oral surgeon – no offense to oral surgeons out there but I can’t imagine root canal being fun.
Go F**k Yourself People Who Can Afford to Take Over the Top Vacations During the Holidays…Yes, we saw you relaxing by the pool with your perfectly pedicured toes. We caught your family beach shots in Cabo. We even saw you skiing in the Alps, biking in Costa Rica and zip lining in Hawaii. Please understand, we are thrilled you were able to afford to pay top dollar for your vacation getaway and you totally deserve it, but here’s the thing. We scrounge up cash every year to travel to the hottest places on earth during the summer months because it’s cheaper and we can’t afford to travel during the holidays. Maybe I just need to delete my Facebook account this time of year so I don’t get jealous. Or maybe I can fast forward to six years from now when my kids will be off the payroll and we can finally travel to the Caribbean or South America when the temperature outside isn’t 120 degrees Fahrenheit.
Go F**k Yourself Health Insurance Companies….When I became an entrepreneur, I never thought I’d have to pay the salary of an entry level teacher for my health care insurance but fast forward a decade and here we are. Since we no longer have an employer covering our medical expenses, we now pay more than what it costs to send one of our kids to a New York State school for a plan that doesn’t even cover certain prescription meds. The other day, my daughter had to get a prescription for eye drops and her doctor gave her two choices – a $10 version and a more expensive one that wouldn’t burn her eyes. When she found out the pain free eye drops was $150, she opted for the stinging sensation in order to save us a few bucks. Thankfully, my daughter is already learning the value of a dollar but seriously, what kind of madman is setting prices at those drug companies anyway, forcing people to choose between medication that will burn your eyes or a more expensive version that won’t? That’s just seriously wrong and there’s nothing funny about that at all.
If you’re like me and feel like you’re in a canoe that’s sprung a leak, I hope you got some laughs before you start paying your bills this month. The good news is, you’re not alone. The bad news is, it still sucks. Here’s to a debt free Friday and a fabulous weekend!
First, let me just say that I am aware that it’s Saturday. Truth be told – I have been pretty busy these past few weeks and sadly, I was unable to make my self imposed Friday deadline for the column. However, I am truly lucky to have friends who are even better writers than I am and one of them submitted this fantastic work of comic genius that I’m sharing with all of you as you get ready to start your weekend.
Today’s Go F**k Yourself Friday column has been submitted by Loyal reader Angry McAngerson
You know what I hate? Well, besides EVERYTHING, I have simmering contempt for people unqualified for their jobs but who we have to encounter/ work with anyway. As if life isn’t annoying enough.
Like the woman at Fedex Kinkos who manages not just the copy machines, laminators, hole punchers and the package counter but also takes Passport photos. No wonder I looked like Fred Flintsone after a Night at the Roxbury. I know it’s unrealistic to have hair and make-up at the counter, but when the artistes at the DMV do it better, you ought to re-evaluate your skill set. Stick to changing toner and keep your ink-stained hands off my unflattering portrait, which will now follow me for 10 years in my passport.
Also, the millennial who knows every shared doc, box, spreadsheet and track changed but not how to do his/ her job. Enough with the action items, deliverables and calendar updates. I don’t need a Google Playroom or Hang Out chat to understand you can’t do your job: I’ve known that from the start. And I’m sending you an Outlook reminder saying so.
Or the cute-as-a-bug bartender who is better at drinking cocktails than making them. Looking adorable does not excuse you from making our drinks. Especially when it’s simple as a scotch on the rocks. It’s easy: see that bottle with the giant letters spelling Scotch? There! That’s it. Whew, you’re good. Now raise and pour. And, btw: a “rock” is an ice cube, not what Carrie Bradshaw didn’t want to wear on her finger after Aidan proposed.
I love a good hotel concierge. Emphasis on “good” because they’re mostly terrible. Scrolling Google does not a concierge make, sorry! And don’t even start with this Siri crap. A computer should not know a good restaurant – you should!
I once worked with a woman who was so good at failing up, it would take six months to figure out she was incompetent … but by then she was on to the next position. All the while, she would try to cozy up to you as her new “bestie,” and with the sincerity of a Lori Loughlin application to college, would say “You know what you can do for me?” What, your job??? I was mortified to learn her upward trajectory has continued unabated, and she’s now second in command of a giant PR department. She is proof positive in the peter principle: everyone rises to their own level of incompetence. Except in her case, there’s no ceiling.
We all appreciate electricity but ConEd should concentrate more on producing volts and less on hiring dolts. Especially in the customer service department. (Un)helpful Mike was happy to assist with my call, except couldn’t verify my identification because my birthdate was wrong. It couldn’t possibly be that he had incorrect information, it had to be that I have been wrong all this time. The problem with stupid-heads in positions of power, though, is this: with one touch of a button he could shut off my power, so I bit my tongue and said “you know, you might be right: it must be the giant stroke I suffered just as I was prompted to say my birthdate. What was my name again?”
And on that note, we’ll be back next Friday with another edition of Go F**k Yourself Friday!
I’m sure you probably have heard about the college admissions cheating scandal that has singlehandedly destroyed the reputations of actors, CEO’s, coaches, test prep administrators and students whose parents wanted to guarantee that their kids would get into the college of their dreams. As someone who has watched her own kids get rejected from teams and programs they had their heart set on, I figured it was high time to give us all a reality check on life. So without further ado, I present Go F**k Yourself Friday, the College Prep Edition…
Go F**k Yourself Lori Loughlin and Felicity Huffman – Seriously, ladies. You always played the nice characters on some of my favorite shows like “Full House” and “Desperate Housewives.” No one would ever suspect that Becky or Lynette would stoop so low as to pay someone off to get their spoiled brat into college, but you two did it. Sure, my friends and I can somewhat relate, having shelled out a boat load of cash for test prep classes for our kids, but I’m not about to back up a Brinks truck full of money and hand over a few hundred thousand to a guy who will get someone to dress up like my kid and take the SAT, or grease the palms of a college coach and pass them off as a member of Crew team when they probably haven’t rowed a boat in their life. Life isn’t about faking it until you make it. It’s about falling flat on your ass and starting all over again.
Go F**k Yourself to Luxury Community Service Teen Tours Your kid hasn’t volunteered for anything the entire time they’ve been in high school and those college application deadlines are looming and you need to come up with something fast. After searching online, you find a teen tour offering trips to the South of France where your daughter can help assemble boats for sea captains in need. Once you’ve booked the trip, you decide to rent a yacht where you pick up your kid halfway through their community service adventure so you can spend the rest of the summer shopping and sailing your way through Europe.
Go F**k Yourself to the SAT, ACT, SAT 1, 2, 49 and Beyond – When are schools going to finally throw out those ridiculous standardized exams that measure whether our kids should be candidates for Mensa just so they can attend a competitive college? Every time a kid gets a decent score, those testing companies move the goal posts. Unless you crack a 1400 on your SAT or score a 34 on your ACT, don’t even bother applying to one of those brand name schools that every parent from Scarsdale to Westport wants their kid to attend.
Go F**k Yourself Parents that Don’t Have to Fill Out FAFSA Forms – Kudos to you if you have saved up enough money in your kids’ 529 plan to pay for college or get a million dollar bonus every year because you work at a hedge fund that’s heavily invested in pharma companies, but for the rest of us who needed that quarter of a million dollars to live this past decade, go F**k Yourself! I seriously am envious of anyone who has never had to spend hours completing a FAFSA application. From forgetting my password every single time, to constantly receiving alerts from my daughter’s school that we need to file more IRS forms or check five more boxes or solve the pythagorean theorem while hopping on one leg, I seriously would rather have root canal than fill out that dreaded FAFSA application every year.
Go F**k Yourself to the Marketing Teams at Colleges My Kid Will Never Get Into – I have to admit, I was a bit giddy when my son received letters from Princeton, University of Chicago and even Columbia inviting him to check out their schools, but let’s be real. He’s a smart kid but they know as well as we do that he’s not getting in. They just want to get their application numbers up so they can share that 39,000 people applied to their schools and they only accepted 12. I’m not falling for it Princeton even though I might just frame your letter for kicks.
After spending a weekend in Florida and then coming back to NYC to frigid temps and faulty GPS, I decided to devote this week’s column to the things that drive me nuts when I’m driving anywhere that’s outside of my neighborhood. For those of you who can feel my pain, this one’s for you.
Go F**k Yourself to the person who designed “roundabouts” – If you’ve never driven around a roundabout, here’s my beef. Your GPS might tell you to make the third right turn after the roundabout but if it’s late at night and someone just rang your phone and your struggling to see where you’re going, you will miss that exit and find yourself being re-routed – over and over again. I have officially decided that if I ever do retire to Florida, I will not live near any roundabout. I guess that means I’m never moving to Florida.
Go F**k Yourself to the person who designed Jug Handles in New Jersey – if you hate roundabouts, you’ll probably hate jug handles even more and here’s why. You already missed your exit while on a long road that’s filled with strip malls and all you want to do is make a U Turn but you can’t do that for miles. That is, until you hit the jug handle – which always comes up out of nowhere and if you miss it, you’ll be forced to keep driving for another five miles until the next one pops up. Come on New Jersey! Just let me make a U Turn. Why does it have to be so difficult?
Go F**k Yourself to Whoever Hung the Highway Signs in New Jersey – I know I seem to be taking aim at the Garden State this week but if you have ever tried to drive on the Jersey Turnpike, the signs are some of the most confusing ones I have ever seen in my life. Even my GPS gets confused too. Go right. No I mean, merge left. Take the express route then merge into the local lane. Go towards the Holland Tunnel but then before you actually drive into it, make a sharp left. OMG – just fix the damn signs before I wind up in Staten Island or Downtown Brooklyn!
Go F**k Yourself GPS that Doesn’t Work in Downtown Manhattan – I know that working downtown is totally the place to be these days, but if you struggle figuring out where to walk after you’ve taken the subway to your destination, then I feel your pain. Just yesterday, I took the subway to Fulton street and then set my GPS so I could walk over to Liberty Street which my map told me was an easy breezy eight minute walk from the train station. The problem is, GPS doesn’t work really well downtown so instead of walking down Broadway, I went the wrong way down a narrow street and wound up by City Hall. I then hopped in a cab which got stuck in traffic and couldn’t go down a bunch of the streets and the next thing I knew, I was 20 minutes late to my appointment. AARGH!!!
Here’s to a jug handle free weekend for you. Even better, just stay inside and don’t drive. It’ll do wonders for your blood pressure.
I would like to preface this week’s column by saying there are a lot of realtors who I adore. In fact, my own mother-in-law is a realtor and while she’s not a top seller, she has made lifelong friends as a result of the incredible connection she makes with buyers. Sure, many of them choose not to move or pick another state entirely, but I love the way my mother-in- law operates. She always puts people first and the deals second. And on that note, for every other realtor who is motivated by dollar signs, this week’s edition of Go F**k Yourself Friday was tailor made for you.
Go F Yourself to the Bait & Switch Realtor – You were supposed to rent my parents’ home in the Hamptons during the US Open and proceeded instead to convince them to sell it. While you couldn’t find a buyer as fast as you thought and my parents went back to Florida for the winter, you kept parading your prospects through the house until you finally made a deal. Now you’re giving my folks the bums rush to close just so you can get your commission check. Sure, my family will never get to spend time in the Hamptons again, but who cares about family traditions anyway? After persuading another pair of snowbirds to sell their gold mine and fly south for good, my parents’ realtor is doing the happy dance. For the record, I have two words to say to you and trust me, it’s not Happy Birthday.
Go F Yourself to the Pushy Realtor – Several years ago, the #1 realtor in our area almost convinced me to sell my home. She took one look at our house and said we had to sell since there was no way we could send our kids to the school in our neighborhood and she tried to convince us to move to the more expensive part of town. Luckily, we didn’t take her advice because we would have totally been under water – and not due to a broken water heater. Instead, we put an extension on our house and just celebrated our 20th year living there. She’s still in business convincing people to move into homes they can’t afford. Sure, she’s made a bundle off the backs of unsuspecting buyers, but all that gets her is a big stack of money and an even bigger FU from me.
Go F**k Yourself to the Apathetic Realtor – After I had done a Google search of where my daughter wanted to live off campus, I discovered that the apartment one of her roommates had found was next to a vacant lot, boarded up buildings and a bodega on the corner. When I called the realtor, whose office was right next door to the building and asked her to share a photo of the front of the place, she refused. Recently, when my daughter experienced roommate problems and had to move out and her apartment mates turned her room into a pot smoking den two hours after she vacated the premises, the realtor refused to get involved. To add insult to injury, when we tried to get someone who was in the Air Force to sublet the place, the realtor, who didn’t want to get involved in roommate disputes, refused to approve him because those cannabis loving roommates didn’t want a guy living in their apartment. Maybe they didn’t want someone who would call the cops on them. Either way, apathetic realtor…go F**k yourself!
Go F**k Yourself to the “Look at Me” Realtor – I get that real estate is all about wanting to work with someone who has a great track record but I really don’t want to see your punim plastered on a massive billboard whenever I’m on my way to my neighborhood Stop & Shop. I’m sure you paid a lot of money so we could see how great you are but honestly, a magnet or a calendar is more subtle and actually comes in handy when I want to hang up a flyer for my son’s play or find out when Passover starts.
Go F**k Yourself to the “I Win All the Awards Realtor” – The last time I took home a trophy was in 1986 so whenever I see a realtor posting on their social media feed that they’ve won yet another award for selling their one millionth home, it drives me nuts. Seriously, no one likes a showoff. Let your customers sing your praises and stop sharing your glass awards like it’s an Oscar or something.
Since I was out all morning traversing the city, I had a lot of time to ponder what my topic would be this week and seriously, this one hit me over the head like a ton of bricks. Wherever I went, there you were, so I present to you, Go F**k Yourself Friday, the STFU Edition!
Go F**k Yourself Arrogant Real Estate Dude – You were sitting right next to me having coffee with a potential employee or consultant and you couldn’t have been more rude to him. Every time the poor guy spoke, you pretty much cut him down to size with some condescending remark like you could buy and sell him. The guy was scrambling to give you ideas and you just wanted to see him sweat. And I was just trying to ignore you while I got my computer’s wifi to work but felt like I was suffering through your interrogation too and even wanted to help him out. Lighten up and don’t be so sure of yourself buddy – you don’t have to be a prick to find good people. Actually, you’ll never find good people that way.
Go F**k Yourself Girl on the Train – Hey twenty-something sitting a few feet away from me. When your phone rang unexpectedly today, did you seriously have to talk so loud so that everyone could hear your conversation? And then once you hung up, did you have to call your friend to tell her what happened in that same loud voice? Just a word on phone etiquette when you’re on the train – take it down a few decibels and look out the window when you’re talking. No one on the train wants to know what’s going on in your life. Okay, maybe we do but don’t make it that easy for us to listen in.
Go F**k Yourself Doctor Who Totally Needs a Hearing Aid – Hey doc! I know you are about to report for surgery and the reason I know is that you are sitting in the hospital cafeteria and your phone rang and you answered it and you were so damn loud that a few comatose patients woke up from the ICU. If your voice breaks through the sound barrier when you’re on a call, then maybe it’s time to either adjust the settings on your phone or visit the audiology department stat.
Go F**k Yourself Up Talker – I bet you don’t even know who you are. I typically bump into you on line at Starbucks and for some strange reason, every sentence that comes out of your mouth always sounds like a question. I’d like a triple soy latte half calf? I’d like a gluten free cake pop? I said soy milk not almond milk? Honestly, not every sentence has to sound like a question. End on a downbeat once in a while and eat some real food for a change.
Go F**k Yourself Low Talker – I have to admit, I am guilty of this one but I’ve been a victim myself. I know you are only trying to be polite but if I ask you a question and I have to read your lips in order to decipher what you said, honestly, what’s the point? Speak up low talker and don’t make me have to ask you the same question again because dammit, I can’t hear anything you’re saying.
Don’t get me wrong, I am as crafty as they come, but there are certain things in life I have no desire to do myself. See if you can relate…
Go F**k Yourself Nurse Ratchet – Even though you were first in your nursing school class, that doesn’t mean my father-in-law wants to learn how change his own catheter bag. I know insurance plans stink nowadays and they kick you out of the hospital immediately after surgery, but what’s next? Will you be teaching my mother-in-law how to do a tracheotomy or master a crash cart in case someone at the beauty parlor flatlines?
Go F**k Yourself Blue Apron – While I do enjoy your meals after I’ve spent an hour preparing them, the one thing I hate more than anything is when you send me a bag of potatoes, five unpeeled carrots, one clove of garlic or a whole lemon and expect that I have the tools to effortlessly slice and dice them. Newsflash – I do not own a mincer or a zester and while I did buy a mandolin, my bloody fingers are now worse for the wear. If you want to make things easy for me then chop those vegetables first and save me at least 20 minutes on prep time.
Go F**k Yourself Self Service Gas Stations There are certain things I just don’t like to do and that’s pumping my own gas. Sure, that might sound pretentious but I always get nervous after fumbling around with the nozzle, that I won’t know when to stop or that I didn’t screw the lid on tight enough. As I drive away, I worry that I’m going to be leaking fuel all over the highway causing an explosion if I drive past an oil tanker. Yes, I have a wild imagination, but some people are afraid of snakes. I’m afraid of pumping gas.
Go F**k Yourself Supermarket Checkout – I’ve spent the last hour navigating my way through narrow aisles getting stuck behind a woman with a kid throwing a tantrum because his mom won’t buy him Fruity Pebbles and now you want me to check out my own groceries and bag them myself? What happened to those Employee of the Month plaques where you praised the fastest cashier? Is supermarket chivalry dead? Methinks that sadly it is…
Go F**k Yourself to Picking My Own Movie Seats Online What ever happened to showing up for a movie early, scoping out the place and picking out the best seat in the house because we got there first? These days, even if you are punctual, you could totally be screwed by someone who snagged your seat online and then shows up after the movie starts. There are certain things that still should be first come first served and even if it’s a free for all or a running of the bulls to get the best seats, that’s part of the adventure of going to the movies. Ya snooze, ya lose.
It’s supposed to be the most romantic time of the year, but honestly, how many of you are sick of Valentine’s Day? Whether you’re married and wait to the last minute to get a card and all that’s left are the really sappy ones, or you’re single and have called your girl squad to assemble so you can drink yourself into oblivion, there are so many FU’s I have for this special Hallmark invented day that I just can’t pick one.
Go F**k Yourself Restaurants with Special Prix Fixe Valentine’s Day Menus: You know exactly who you are. You know that February 14 is on the slowest night of the week, and yet, you decide it’s time to charge triple what you’d normally charge for the most expensive items on your menu. To add insult to injury, no one can even order from your regular menu so it’s Prix Fixe or bust. And then, since your chef is cooking the same thing all night, the filet mignon tastes like shoe leather and the wasabi whipped potatoes are cold. Spare me the Prix Fixe or I’m staying home.
Go F**k Yourself to Bad Tasting Chocolate: Truth be told. One of my most favorite things to do is eat chocolate but typically, I go for the rocky road fudge or a small square of dark chocolate when I’ve got a 4pm sugar craving. But on Valentine’s Day, all bets are off. Instead, I’m gifted a tantalizing box of chocolates but every time I take a bite, the surprise inside makes me gag. I mean, who on this planet actually likes orange cream flavoring? If I’m expecting salted caramel on the inside and you give me chocolates infused with chili flakes, then I’m going to throw the box at you.
Go F**k Yourself to the Person Who Decided that Valentine’s Day Should be Celebrated in February: Out of all the days of the year, you have to pick the one where the temperatures are below zero and the odds of there being a blizzard are pretty high. I still remember the two incidents when we went out on Valentine’s Day in the middle of a snow storm. The first time, we were practically the only ones in the restaurant and they still charged us the prix fixe menu and the second time, we went to see a Broadway show and stayed overnight in the city. I was not wearing snow boots and the sanitation and salt trucks were nowhere to be found. So I walked through the slushy mess in my suede booties and by the time we arrived back at our hotel, my feet were blocks of ice. So romantic.
Go F**k Yourself to Florists Who Rip People Off on Valentine’s Day: Whenever I think of Valentine’s Day, I think of flowers and when I think of flowers, I think of my wedding day and when I think of my wedding day I get pissed off. The reason? Our florist, Stefan’s gypped us that day and never put hydrangeas in our centerpieces and to add insult to injury, my mom’s cleaning lady mistakenly through my gorgeous bouquet away. Yes, I know these memories bear no connection to paying through the nose for long stem roses or a bouquet that looks beautiful when I order it online but is pretty sparse when it arrives at your front door, but either way, I have no tolerance for florists who know they are ripping me off and think I’m not going to know any better. News flash: I am a flower snob. Only send me spectacular flowers or don’t send me any flowers at all.
Go F**k Yourself to Really Stupid Valentine’s Day Gifts: The dumbest ad just popped up in my Facebook feed – an $11 romantic scavenger hunt for two just in time for Valentine’s Day. First of all, why the hell would I want to be going outside in the dead of winter to look for gifts on Valentine’s Day? Don’t stick my diamond earrings in the woods. Make sure it’s safely put away where it belongs – in a blue Tiffany box with a nice white bow that’s carefully tucked away in your pocket. Don’t make me search for diamonds. Just buy them for me, hand them over and you will effectively make my day.
If you do celebrate Valentine’s Day, I hope you get everything you want out of it – great chocolate, a delicious dinner that’s not overly priced, beautiful flowers and diamonds, lots of diamonds.
As someone who really isn’t interested in football, this time of year can be a bit frustrating for me. I mean, I don’t mind the commercials or the halftime show but honestly, the obsession about the “Big Game” is really a bit over the top if you ask me. But since everyone is talking about the Super Bowl this weekend and I know I’m in the minority, here’s a big ole’ FU to some of the things that really get under my pigskin.
Go F**k Yourself NFL for Making People Call the SUPER BOWL “The Big Game” – If you’re not in the media industry you probably don’t realize this but any time you see a commercial or a news report about the Super Bowl, you might notice that it’s being called “The Big Game” instead of what it is…the friggin’ SUPER BOWL! The reason is simple — it’s all about money. The NFL licenses the name Super Bowl and brands pay big bucks to have access to that name so if you try to leverage that name to gain more viewers or add a few more customers, you could be looking at a lawsuit. Hey NFL, SUPER BOWL, SUPER BOWL, SUPER BOWL. Now go F**k yourself because I don’t even like football anyway.
Go F**k Yourself to Super Bowl Party Hosts Who No Longer Invite me to their Shindig – Sure I didn’t really like most of the people at your party and pretty much dreaded going each year but that didn’t mean I didn’t want an invite. I guess the fact that I don’t actually sit down to watch the game gave you a hint that I wouldn’t mind if I wasn’t on the guest list. Think again – I still liked the nachos and chicken wings. It was the actual game I couldn’t care less about.
Go F**k Yourself to the Guy Who Yells at the TV thinking someone is listening to him – I know I can get a bit over excited during the finale of America’s Got Talent and may even emit an audible sob during a particularly emotional episode of “This is Us,” but I know that nobody can hear me. So why is it when a player fumbles a ball or a referee makes a bad call that you feel it’s your duty to curse at the screen and coach from the sidelines even though no one can hear you through your 72 inch TV monitor. Just keep drinking your wife-bought Michelob Ultra and shut the F**k up.
Go F**k Yourself to the New England Patriots – I know there are plenty of Patriots fans out there but honestly, do you have to make the Super Bowl every single year and be so smug about it? Even when we think you’re about to bite it, you manage to always make it to the Super Bowl to just annoy people in every other part of the country except for the people who live in New England. Just retire already Tom Brady and hang out with your wife and kids. Gisele wants you to buy her a yacht with the Brinks truck full of money you get every year for throwing that ball around. Honestly, in my next life, I’m coming back as a professional quarterback or a supermodel.
Go F**k Yourself Over the Fact that the Super Bowl is on a Sunday – Honestly, what nitwit decided to play the Super Bowl on Sunday instead of Saturday night? If you have to be at work at 8am and have had 10 beers and a bucket full of wings the night before, how productive do you honestly think you’ll be Monday morning? Let people get their party game on and give them a day to recuperate. Super Bowl Saturday still sounds just as catchy as Super Bowl Sunday.
Following an incredibly stressful week, I have discovered that one of the most cathartic things I can do for myself is write. This column has become a great source of therapy for me as I share all the things that get under my skin. Tonight, I present to you, Go F**k Yourself, the Zero Patience Edition.
Go F**k Yourself Excruciatingly Slow Driver who is driving 15 miles under the speed limit. Maybe you’re lost or you just like to take in the scenery but either way, I need to pick up my son who’s waiting for me outside in 12 degree weather wearing a flimsy parka. Either keep the Cadillac Seville in the garage or get the f**k out of my way!
Go F**k Yourself to the guy on the Metro North platform who hip checked me on his way into the train. We’re all headed to the same place and if you think you’re going to give me the stink eye when you sit in the six seater where me and my girlfriends commence our morning gabfest, you’ve got another thing coming.
Go F**k Yourself to the Oblivious Pedestrian who is texting and walking at the same time. I totally get that we all get distracted when someone sends us a message that must be a matter of life and death, but seriously, if you don’t watch where you’re going, you could be hit by a city bus or fall through the sidewalk.
Go F**k Yourself Couple Who Arrive at the Movies two minutes before the film is supposed to start. We’ve been here for 20 minutes feeling cozy in our electronic recliners and then the two of you stroll in with your soda, M&M’s and jumbo popcorn and then force us to stand up. Seriously, get your s**t together and get here in time for the previews like the rest of us.