I Am Now an Official Twit

Well, I did something else I thought I would never do...joined Twitter. I've always viewed Twitter as kind of a pansyish cousin to Facebook status updates, serving little purpose other than a way for junior high girls to instantly learn what kind of coffee their favorite Twilight stars are drinking.

But, in my defense, I have not joined as myself, but as my alias, yours truly, Kaptain Kvetch. I figure this way I can blast my more minor irritations out to the universe, the ones undeserving of a full blog post, and maybe scoop up some more readers in the process.

So, I just twatted my first tweet, or whatever the lingo is in the Twitterverse, in which I pose the question: what do I call these? Kveets? Twetches? Suggestions, anyone?

Anyway, if you're a fellow twit, go ahead and start following me @KaptainKvetch.

Bad Samaritan

Dear Asshole who Rear-ended Me,

The next time you decide to pilot your automobile like Stevie Wonder, careening down the 405 and smashing into the back of someone's car who is sitting at a standstill in traffic backed up off an exit ramp, causing this sort of damage...

...to not only the car you hit, but the car that that car is knocked into - and inflicting someone with a bit of injury, psychological trauma, and an all around shitty day - the least you could do is get out of your car to see if everyone is okay.

I mean, I understand you're not supposed to admit fault in an accident (even though a retarded baby monkey could plainly see it was your fault). But it's just common courtesy to step outside, check on the well-being of your common human being who you just plowed your SUV into, and maybe take it upon yourself to call the police, instead of letting one of the people you gave whiplash to handle it for you.

That's all. Just a suggestion. Have fun with that insurance rate hike, which will no doubt be augmented by my choosing the most expensive rental car Enterprise had.

K. Kvetch

Howard Roark, Meet Colonel Sanders

I was driving down Western Ave today, near Koreatown, when I noticed this KFC:

Check out that building. The picture may not do it justice, but it is a stunningly unique architectural feat. The unconventional angels, the giant gills perforating the rounded exterior, the elevated patio, the blocklike components stacked on the roof like Legos...some serious creativity went into the design of this building.

Is this what our culture has come to? I can imagine that a respected architect was commissioned to design this building. Maybe it was originally intended to be a museum, or a gallery, or some sort of cultural center.

And then, when whatever it used to be didn't make enough money, it was quickly reformatted to sell something Americans really want: bacon and cheese sandwiches with fried chicken patties for buns.

Ratatouille

I was just down at Ralphs, in mid-order on a turkey sandwich at the deli counter, when I looked down to my right and saw this.

That's right. A dead fucking rat, just laying on the floor. Of a grocery store. The place where you buy food that you put in your mouth.

It's hard to say if I've ever been more grossed out than I was when I saw this. Maybe if I had vomited on the rat, that would have been grosser. But as it was, my gut reaction was just to start laughing hysterically at the absurdity of the grossness of what I was looking at. Which was followed shortly by the instinct to take a picture of it with my BlackBerry.

Come on, Ralphs. This is America. It's 2010. The Plague was centuries ago in Europe. I shouldn't have to tap dance around dead vermin while ordering food. Let's set the bar a little higher, huh?

Epilogue: Yes, I did still get that sandwich, and yes, it was delicious.

Non-Baseball Fans, Please Disregard

If I may take a moment to indulge my frustrations with my long-suffering baseball team...

Dear Bruce Bochy,

If you haven't noticed, your team is in the middle of a pennant race. You're one game out of first place. You're playing against a very good team on the road, trying to salvage a split of a four game series. Might I make the outrageous suggestion of PUTTING YOUR BEST PLAYER IN THE LINEUP.

Especially because your team has ZERO OFFENSE WITHOUT HIM.

And also because his backup SUCKS WORSE THAN A WHORE WITHOUT A MOUTH.

In case you don't know who I'm referring to: BUSTER "FUCKING" POSEY.

I know I don't have a degree in baseball managing from the University of Sitting on Your Stupid Fat Ass, but it just seems like common sense to start the guys who are good at the sport that you're supposedly knowledgable enough of to run an entire team. As opposed to, you know, the guys who are bad at it. But what do I know.

Go Giants,

KK

This One's For You, Blobby

As it goes with the cyclical nature of my profession, lately I've been pretty down on the whole screenwriting thing. You go long stretches without success, you get frustrated and start to doubt your talents and life choices.

So naturally, I've had conversations with some of those close to me about these frustrations. And I've found that the number one consolation people offer is to tell me that "There are plenty of writers out there who haven't even sold a script."

I'm not sure why, but this never makes me feel better at all. Comparing myself to losers is not a real pick-me-up. Because of the half-empty way in which my defective mind works, I tend to compare myself to those more successful than me, which, admittedly, isn't the best strategy.

You might as well tell me, "Hey, there are plenty of people with no talent at all." Or, "There are people who don't have hands who can't even type." It gives me the same empty feeling I get when an ugly girl tells me I'm cute, or a retard tells me I'm smart (the latter of which has never happened; the former has happened quite a bit).

So I guess what I'm saying is, thanks everyone for your continued support!