Before I begin to complain about the things I came here to complain about, I would like to complain about my local paper -- there were three important port-a-potty related incidents in the print version of the Downers Grove Reporter, yet only one appears on the website. What gives, Reporter? The people have a right to know about exploding portable toilets!

But that concern is minor compared to the disgusting woman who sat next to me on the train during this morning's commute. I can forgive her for eating breakfast on the train, even if it was a crumb cake that made a mess while she slurped her chocolate milk (seriously, what is she, five years old?). I can even look past her putting her big ugly yellow purse on the seat next to her in a vain attempt to keep me from sitting there (did you pay for two seats?). But what was inexcusable was her picking at her face and then flinging the particles on the ground or wiping them on her pants.

I didn't want to stare (which in retrospect seems a bit odd; I was worried about appearing rude to someone who smears her secretions around and sets her skin flakes afloat in the enclosed shared atmosphere of a train compartment?), but I couldn't help but notice part of her "grooming" regimen involved her eyebrows. What, praytell, do you dig out and dislodge from your eyebrow and throw on the floor? On second thought, don't tell me.

I have another complaint.

Because life is a series of cruel ironic punishments, I am forced to interact with other humans in the course of my job. Specifically, I answer the phones and forward on calls to the people who actually work here. Inevitably, I get at least a call or two a day that goes something like this:

Caller: "Could I speak to (insert important person) here?"

Me: "I'm sorry; she's (in a meeting, on a call, at lunch). Would you like her voice mail or would you like me to take a message?"

Caller: "That's okay; I'll just send her an email."

What I want to say: "Then why didn't you do that in the FIRST PLACE, instead of fucking calling here and fucking interrupting my very important letter typing or mail opening or Facebook checking or whatever the hell else I SHOULD have been doing while you WASTED my FUCKING TIME with your USELESS FUCKING PHONE CALL you stupid lazy ASSHOLE?"

What I actually say, in my syruppy, chirpy, cheerful business persona: "Okay, then. Have a good day!"

So, in essence, I'm complaining that I'm forced to be nice to other people. It's really rather grating.

Not you guys, though. I LOVE you guys.

Okay, then. Have a good day!

I've been ordered to blog by one of the vice presidents here at work, and to angrify me she suggested I rip on Whole Foods. But I haven't been to Whole Foods lately, so I won't and she can't make me.

There has been blog fodder around, mind you. I can't believe that another Downers Grove pervert in the news failed to bring me 'round. "Hey baby, bring me some blog."

I blame my failure to retool this blog to better reflect my current circumstances; I'll work on that later. But right now I will tell you an asshole story. It's about an asshole.

The Ubergirls, Dilf and I recently attended the Downers Grove Fourth of July Parade. We had an extra sittin' blanket, so when I saw a wee girl of 3 or 4 sitting with her bare legs on the hot concrete sidewalk next to us as we sat along the parade route, I offered her our extra blanket. Her dad thanked us, then proceeded to set up camp on our blanket. The parade started.

And they started throwing shit. Like candy. Or in the inexplicable case of Congresswoman Judy Biggert, sponges. Because she sponges off the taxpayers? Good job being honest for once, Bigot. (That's what my dad calls her.)

Anyways.

Allstate comes by throwing Frisbees out to the crowd, and UberYounger holds her little arms up and joyfully squeaks, "Here! Frisbee!" The insurance agent tosses one to her, but it slips through her fingers and lands next to her.

Where the guy to whom I generously offered a blanket STEPPED ON IT and WOULDN'T GIVE IT BACK. UberYounger began to well up with tears, not just because she wanted the Frisbee, but because she couldn't understand why an adult would do that to her.

I guess a Frisbee is a pretty cheap price to pay for life knowledge like that -- some guys are just dicks.

I turned to Dilf and said, "That was a dick move." (Hence the title of this post) I'm actually surprised Dilf didn't say something to the guy. He normally would. But I think he was nearly dead from heat exhaustion at the time, combined with the fact he didn't feel we needed another piece of plastic crap cluttering up the garage. Although, oddly, we really don't have a frisbee.

So, wherever you are, Mr. Dick Move, I hope you're enjoying the frisbee, even if it's not jammed horizontally up your ass like I would like it to be.