Full disclosure: we live in New York City, so when it comes to jaywalkers we’re generally pretty Nancy Pelosi. Want to walk on a full hand? Go for it. Want to txt while cutting across a side street? This is America. Want to stroll across Second Avenue at 3am? To each his own. However, there is one type of pavement flanneur that makes us angrier than Rush Limbaugh at a lesbian chili cook-off: Extremely Entitled Jaywalker.

This particular street stroller has gotten it into his head that Terry Richardson has personally granted him the American-Apparel-given right to own the roadway. As if you, in your mother’s Honda Civic, late for your $25 head shots, must wait while Mr. EEJ takes his time making his way across four lanes of traffic, while pondering the meaning of last night’s saliva session (“I was just experimenting…”) Heaven forbid you give him a polite stare, or a subtle honk, because any form of “what the fuck are you doing,” however polite, is instantly met with a look of utter repulsion from a douche bag who looks like he should be cleaning your windshield for loose change and a half-eaten banana. Ridiculous! This guy could be walking diagonally across a Los Angeles expressway as the entire city flees the impending Ashton Kutcher zombie apocalypse and this backpack of suck wouldn’t even pick it up one step.

Next time we come across one of these guys, we’re not even going to get angry, we’re just going to shove them in our car, drive them to the airport, pay for their cargo class ticket to Paris (maybe some duty free), take them to a confusing roundabout and let the Parisians deal with him. La vengeance est un plat qui se mange à la carte al, le meunier. Merci pourquoi.

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Flying these days is more nerve racking than letting Stevie Wonder give you a bikini wax with packing tape. After all the checking-in, paying to have your bag stored in your anal cavity, making it through security with your bag stuck in your anal cavity, cancellations, delays, waiting to see if the Roy Rogers will digest, and finding your seat next to a terrorist toddler, the second to last thing we need is to be thrown around the cabin like a ferret being fucked by Shaquille O’Neil. But the official last thing we need is to be a confused Shaq-fucked ferret, wondering if we’ve just hit some harmless cloud bits, or if we should be figuring out how to use the air-phone to call our families and apologize for spending their inheritance on fancy dream catchers.

Of course, all this confusion could be avoided if Turbulence-Ambivalent Pilot would just come on the PA and announce our imminent death or tell us everything is going to be ok, except the meal, which would taste like sloth placenta, if we were to be served one, which we won’t. We plummet 5,000 feet, get puked on by a mid-western business man on his way to sell syringes to old people’s homes, and poop our newly-ironed track pants, and TAP just sits there in the comfort of his cockpit, silent as an mime orgasm.

Really, Captain Swirly? You’re gonna let us replay the crash scene in Castaway and imagine the inevitable loss of our best friend/volleyball on the choppy seas as you sit pretty with your finger on the seatbelt sign? Unacceptable. Next time you don’t address the situation, we’re going to drag ourselves out of this Xanax coma, barge into your control room and remind you that you have a throat by sticking our left elbow in it. It’s what Sully would do.

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Today’s forecast: sunny, 110º, 98% humidity with a slight chance of Volcano. Geez, I better bundle up before heading to my freelance barista position at Granola Greg’s Bean Bazaar. Good thing I have my trusty vintage, organic, free-range Alpaca Alkaline Trio skullcap to keep me warm.

Wait, what the global warming, Troy? Do you have flannel in your ears? The weatherman said it was like a gazillion degrees outside, and you think it’s a good idea to plop on a wool cap that’s weather tested to survive Everest in December? That makes asking Lindsay Lohan to babysit your priceless necklace collection seem like a good idea. Honestly, we don’t often like to pick on people’s fashion choices, to each their own really, but this trend of sub zero summer fashion is boggling our brain cave, and not in a good Salvia type of way. More in a make us all hot n’punchy type of way. Now, we know the toque (its Canadian, look it up) totally completes your outfit and provides you with just the right amount of faux working class, sailor cred, to avoid beat-down outside the Short Pump Urban Outfitters, but c’mon buddy, let your follicles breathe – they’re dying under your sweat stocking. Not to mention what your”just-got-my-Graphic-Designer-TN-Visa” look is doing to the planet. Thanks to your 12 layers of graphic tees, we’ve got the AC cranked up higher than Harvey Weinstein’s Fort Lauderdale pad circa mid-August.

This epidemic has gotten so bad that the next time we see a HWWCG winterizing his wardrobe in the middle of a Western Sahara heat wave, we’re going to have to step in and provide six degrees of separation to his scalp. “Its getting  hot in herre, so take off all your clothes…” Seriously though.

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One of our favorite games to play here at PWDI is “Would You Rather,” in which we list two perturbed, mind-melting options and force each other to decide which seems least horrifying. Like, having monkey AIDS, OR getting cornered at a party by the guy who takes eight hours to tell the story of his cat’s leaky hemorrhoids which could have been distilled down to 27 equally excruciating seconds, after you’ve just dropped all the brown acid.

Tough call. Monkey AIDS would be pretty bad, what with all the shedding and stuff, but ultimately, getting stuck listening to Long-Winded Larry mumble on about the situation of migrant workers in South Guadalajara as they relate to season one of the original Buffy the Vampire Slayer when all we asked was “where’s the bathroom?” takes the proverbial urinal cake. In case you missed that, we’re saying we’d rather the monkey AIDS.

Taking care of this rambler requires precision. Wait for a breathy pause or break in conversation and you might still be standing there when your great grandchildren go through menopause. So, shake your polite willingness to avoid interrupting and hijack this conversation with a quippy one liner to the abdomen. He’ll be long-winded alright…as in winded for a long time…get it?

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“Zoop Zoop,” “Booom,” Whaan Whaaan,” “Klaboom.” We know what you are thinking. You’ve been transported back in time to a 1940’s Warner Brothers sound lot where you will eventually be blacklisted for your leftist leanings and preference for commie red fedoras. Close, but not exactly. Unfortunately, the infernal racket is actually just a tasting menu of audio assaults from the notoriously obnoxious Constant Sound Effects Guy.

Known for his ability to bookend every sentence, statement, and action with a “bang,” “bop,” or “blooooozap,” this talentless Biz Markie is no modern day Ben Burtt (anyone?).  In fact, his contribution to the office environment is only slightly less horrible then getting your scrotum caught on the paper feed during a mid-day copy room romp session.  Why CSEG chooses to make his mark on this world by spewing bizarre sound effects every other second is beyond us. All we know is it’s hella annoying. There you are, trying to have a grown-up conversation about how the baby formula you imported form Burma at 10 shillings a barrel just might be tainted with asbestos, when buddy drops a “ruh roh” mid-sentence. Dammit Shaggy, we know we’re screwed, but the last thing we want to hear as we contemplate the FDA giving us a colonic is your commentary in the dialect of “Fucking Stupid.”

The next time your eardrums are given the Clock Work Orange treatment, the best thing to do is to record a couple sound effects of your own. We like to start with an original composition called “knuckles rapping heavily on the cheek” in the key of “DUN DUN DUN.”

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According to a survey conducted by the Board of Sad Doctors, dentists have the highest suicide rate in the country. “Of course they do,” you say. “They yank our porcelains out of their skulls, shove needles longer than anything we’ve seen on Celebrity Rehab into our gums, and penetrate our canals with wrenches in broad daylight!” But if you think dentists off themselves because we’re scared of them, you’re wronger than a meerkat at a jackal convention. These teeth torturers are hanging from the rafters because they’re defaulting on their Porsche payments and being chased by bookies named Organ Grinder.

And what better way to make some fast cash than by diagnosing a one-too-many-BJs toothache as a skull-crushing emergency root canal, repairable only by replacing our natural pearly whites with authentic endangered Namibian elephant ivory? That’s right, Upselling Dentist gets us in for a cleaning and kicks us out with a second mortgage and a stinging sensation somewhere much further south than our lateral incisors (i.e. ass rape).

Next time you go in for a six monther and end up sold on Sun Bright®, “the only whitening system that sends you to space and exposes your teeth to real sun beams!” take matters into your hands and give the fleecer a taste of her own fluoride. Literally – that shit tastes like the discarded diapers of real life sour patch kids.

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Returning to work after the holidays is always interesting. The weather is shit, you’re stuffed worse than a Turducken at Golden Coral, and you can’t really remember what you do. But for some reason, there’s a smidgen of enthusiasm tickling the back of your throat.  2011 is going to be your year; you’re going to hit the gym, work harder, and stop sleeping with Bryn, the late twenties (?) intern. Yup, this is going to be your.fucking.year.

But just as you sit down to tackle the days work with a bottle of Cognac and the confidence of a tour operator, Brad from sales saunters into your cubicle looking like a microwaved George Hamilton. Soon as he regales you with stories of exotic nude turtle swimming, that throat tickle turns into a scratch of strep with a side murderous jealousy. Because while you were Jack Torrancing around your in-law’s house playing the Romanian version of Apples to Apples, Obnoxiously Tanned Co-Worker was soaking up more UV than John Boehner on spring break.  It’s not that we have anything against a little bronzing, but when this Oompa Loompa makes you rethink your life choices by beginning every sentence with “When I was in St. Barts, we just loooooved yachting with Roman Abramovich,” it kind of makes you want to shove his bottle of après soleil olive oil right through his perfectly toasted esophagus.

The best thing to do when confronted by OTCW is to pretend not to notice buddy is three shades closer to melanoma. But if that doesn’t work, squirting a little SPF 750 directly in the left eye will send leather-face directly to bed. Not the tanning variety.

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