FML. And FYL While We're At It

It should have been a good day.
Not that I had any particular expectations for it - sure, I can be dumb sometimes, but I'm not a complete idiot; I've learned a thing or two about expectations over the course of nearly four decades - but, overall, in general, for the most part, barring anything unforeseen, it should have been a good day. An okay day. A so-so day.
At the very least it shouldn't have been a massive shitstorm.
...
I'll back up.
It was Wednesday. After a restless night's sleep, it was off to a rocky start, but nothing too terrible or unusual. No matter what else happened it was going to be my last day physically at work until the new year, as I would be working from home on Thursday, and then burning up the last of my vacation so as to avoid pointlessly driving in to the ghost town that work always is at this time of year.
It didn't really start to go awry until around 9:45, when I was talking to my boss. We were supposed to meet that afternoon to have a sort of strategy session for a project I'll be working on once the break is over. She mentioned that she might be a bit late, as she had to go to a holiday lunch with another team. She then asked me if I wanted to go as well - "It's free food" - and forwarded me the invite.
The lunch was set to start at 11:30. I got to the place - a local pool hall/sports bar; it was the second time this week that I found myself at a pool hall, as my Director had thrown a holiday party for our team on Monday at a different pool hall - at around 11:35 and found it almost abandoned. I went up to the bar to ask if there was an area reserved for the party. The girl said she didn't know of any reservations, but went to check with her manager. She returned shortly and said that there were no reservations, but that she would set aside two pool tables for the group, should anyone show up. A few minutes later the phone rang; it was the Director of the team who was throwing the party - the one set for 11:30, mind you - calling to make a reservation for noon.
At least I was somewhat vindicated, inasmuch as there actually was a party.
Eventually people trickled in. I hung out for a while, ate some food that was really bad for me, then headed back to work to pack up and call it an early day.
Because I didn't want to have to venture out into the world on the last two days before Christmas, and because my usual Saturday world-venturing wouldn't be taking place, I'd decided to stop at the comic shop on the way home. I also needed to get gas, and my car, covered with salt and sludge from last week's snowfall, really needed to be washed. So I decided I'd gas up and get a carwash at the station near the comic shop, but once I got there I found that the carwash was closed - there was a large van parked in front of the entrance to prevent people from even trying to use it - so I decided I'd go to another station/carwash that was sort-of-but-not-really on my way.
I got there and pulled up to the pump, only to see a note saying that the carwash was out of order.
Further, after deciding to at least get gas, I discovered, after having initiated the usual process, that I'd misremembered the layout of the place and had pulled up to the diesel pump. I waited and waited for my transaction to time out, and then tried to locate an available pump - I should note that, at 2:30, when I left work, there had been just as much traffic as you'd be likely to run into at 5:00 - and managed to find one - just to be cut off by someone who swooped in and took it. I turned around and, awkwardly, pulled up to another open pump, where there was a note saying that all they had was premium.
Cursing, since gas is already expensive enough as it is,I decided to take a more circuitous route home and swing by yet another gas station/carwash.
I got to the gas station, swiped my card, pressed "Yes" when it asked me if I wanted a carwash, and then found myself kind of puzzled when it didn't ask me which type of carwash I wanted. I shrugged it off, thinking, "Maybe it asks afterwards because it gives some kind of discount based on how much gas you by," which is something I have encountered before. As the gas was pumping, I looked over, ruefully, at the multiple cars in line at the carwash.
Then the pump finished and printed out my receipt and went back to the start screen. What about the carwash?
I have no idea, and by that time I was far too infuriated to even want a carwash anymore, so I just headed home.
I sat around for a while wondering why The Universe was so dead-set against letting me wash my car, and then decided that I might as well head out, as I had to be in Manassas by 6 to meet Scott, Stacy, and some friends of theirs for dinner before heading off to see Tron: Legacy.
I should mention that I've always been kind of ambivalent about Tron. I saw the original in the theater when it came out back when I was 10. It had been kind of cool, I guess, but it wasn't exactly life-altering, and I'd never really had any strong nostalgia for it, and, with all due respect to Scott, who has been eagerly anticipating the movie for a long time, no significant interest in seeing the sequel.
Still, I'd agreed to go, so I punched my destination into the GPS and headed towards Manassas...during rush hour.
Things were going okay until I was about a mile from my destination. The estimated time on the display for me to traverse that final mile was two minutes.
Ha.
16 minutes later it was still telling me that this time, for sure, honest, it really meant that I would make it in two minutes. Not that it really mattered, since I was going to be a bit early anyway.
After 20 minutes spent slowly drifting in an endless ocean of slow-moving and not-moving-at-all cars, I'd gotten to the point where the GPS told me to "bear right." I did so, and to my right I could see a plaza that seemed likely to be the place.
The only problem was that "bearing right" had brought me onto the freeway, and there was no way to actually get to that plaza.
And as I was pulling into the intersection, my GPS said, "You have arrived at your destination. Your route guidance is now finished."
Uh-huh.
I had to drive a couple of miles before I got to an exit, and a few miles more before I could find somewhere to pull over and re-enter my destination - you can't actually set the GPS while in motion - and was on my way back, and only likely to be a couple of minutes late.
Or so I thought. As I was nearing the place once more - still unable to see any way to get there, my GPS initially told me to turn left - which was impossible - and then said, "Information is incomplete. Route guidance cannot provide turn-by-turn directions."
Eventually I found myself even further away, so I called Scott to let him know that I'd be a bit late. Stacy answered and said that they were about five minutes away and for me to get us a table. I explained that I was, according to the directions, 20 minutes away.
Eventually I got back into the vicinity, and, once again, my GPS led me back onto the freeway and away from my destination - after telling me that the intersection was my destination.
At that point I was prepared to just go home. I called Scott again and Stacy talked me out of just going home, and tried to provide me some guidance.
Eventually, after missing a turn, I got to the place.
I discovered that, during my initial attempt at getting there, I should have actually turned right several yards before where the GPS told me to bear right.
What my GPS had said would be a 20 minute trip - hell, even with the extra 20 minutes it took to travel that mile, it still would have only been about 50 minutes - had turned into nearly a two-and-a-half hour trip.
Given that I was already in a shitty mood before leaving home, things hadn't improved much by that time.
While the restaurant we'd eaten at had been selected for its proximity to the theater, we'd missed our intended showtime - thanks to me, which annoyed me even further, as I hate to be the source of problems - and would need to kill far too much time to catch the next one, so we decided on a different theater.
As we were leaving the restaurant I had said, jokingly - at least, such was my intention, though it wasn't taken that way, apparently - "If I'm not there, I went home."
On the way to the theater - which I more-or-less knew how to get to, and which my GPS had demonstrated an ability to direct me to in the past - I ended up driving alongside the only cop in Virginia who actually drives below the speed limit, which added considerable delay to my drive.
Also along the way, I'd started to question the directions, because I had thought it was a different theater.
Once I got there, I had to drive around the parking lot multiple times before finding a space a quarter of a mile or so away from the theater.
I double- and triple-checked the movie listings on my phone to make sure I was at the right place, then made my way inside with about ten minutes to spare.
Nobody was there. I tried calling and got voicemail. I sent a text and waited for a response that never came. Finally, as I was about to say, for the umpteenth time for the day, "Fuck. My. Life. Further, Fuck. Everyone's. Life. And, while I'm at it, Fuck. This." My phone started to vibrate. It was Stacy, informing me that no one had been able to get a signal, and that they were actually inside, seated. So I bought my ticket, then bought the smallest "large" Coke Zero I've ever seen, and made my way into the theater. By that time I was a seething cauldron of rage that was starting to boil over. Scott informed me that they hadn't bothered waiting for me because I'd said I "might not be coming."
And it should have been a good day.
A halfway-decent day.
An okay day.
A so-so day.
Fucking shitstorm.
On the way home, still feeling annoyed, I put the music playing and discovered that, to my chagrin - though by that time how much chagrin could I possibly have left? - that none of the CDs in the changer contained any loud, violent music, which was what I was in the mood for.
Eventually I settled on some Nick Cave, and had to content myself to concluding, as the song Knoxville Girl began to play, "Well, at least it has a murder in it."

Who's Responsible For This?

There's an old Kids in the Hall sketch in which some corporate CEO all excited about the day's upcoming company event - a picnic or a softball game or somesuch - which will be taking place outside. However, when he opens the blinds in the conference rooms he sees that it's raining cats and dogs. "WHO'S RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS?" he screams in frustration. Everyone starts pointing fingers at each other, and he makes his way down the corporate ladder as each person assigns the blame to a subordinate, until finally he's down to the janitor, the person on the lowest rung, and the CEO declares, "You're fired!"
At that point, the rain stops, the clouds disappear, and it turns into a beautiful sunny day.
The reason this comes to mind is that earlier today I was checking out prices on flights to Michigan for my upcoming annual pilgrimage home.
Out of curiosity, and for the sheer hell of it, I decided to see how much more First Class tickets would cost than Ecoomy.
I wasn't prepared for the answer.
It was more than three times the cost of a regular ticket.
I've flown First Class a couple of times; it's totally not worth that much money. For those kinds of prices you ought to get head.
At the very least.
Even though I had no intention of flying First Class anyway, seeing that pissed me off, to the point that I found myself angrily wondering "WHO'S RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS?" and wish that it were possible to find that person and give him or her a call:

"Hello, operator? Get me the person responsible for setting the price on First Class airline tickets. Yes, I'll hold."
"..."
"dadadada da da da the girl from Ipanema - dammit! Stupid hold music."
"..."
"Hello, this is Tad Funklesworth, Director of First Class Airline Ticket Pricing. How may I help you?"
"Hi, my name is Jon and I was just wondering...are you fucking retarded? $700 more for a slightly bigger seat and a shitty meal? Assuming the flight even has meal service? And you don't even get head out of it? Go fuck yourself, Tad."

As mentioned, I'd never bother with flying First Class anyway, unless I was going to be spending hours and hours and hours on a plane. However, the flight from Dulles to Minneapolis only takes about two and a half hours, and the flight from Minneapolis to home doesn't even have a First Class section because it's just a tiny little puddle-jumper.
So fuck you, Tad, or whoever you are.

All Of The Above Leads Me To A Question Department:
When he turned 40, legendary comic book writer and beard enthusiast Alan Moore declared to friends and family that it was his intention to become a magician.
Not a stage magician, but an actual magician.
He said that he didn't really know what was going to come of it, and that he was trusting his loved ones to warn him if it seemed as though in his studies of the mystical secrets of the universe he might be going mad.
The question this raised among said loved ones was "How would we be able to tell?"
Which leads me to my question: does it seem like I'm getting angrier?
Seriously, I was totally pissed off about something that, by my own admission, had no real impact on me, and I find that it seems to take less and less to piss me off more and more.
I realize that it's an unfair question, given how high a level of anger serves as my baseline, and, as with Moore and madness, how would you be able to tell if Jon is actually getting angrier?
Still, I'm just curious as to whether or not my apparent increase in rage levels is apparent.

Random Declaration Department:
If they ever make a movie based on The Doom Patrol (I'm currently reading Showcase Presents The Doom Patrol Volume One), and it features The Brotherhood of Evil as the villains (which it should), the voice of Monsieur Mallah should be provided by Jean Reno.
Why? Because a super-intelligent, beret and bandolier-wearing French gorilla voiced by The Professional? I have two things to say to that: fuck and yes.

Apart from casting roles in movies that don't exist, getting pissed about the cost of something I have no intention of buying, and finding myself a little troubled by my rising levels of non-specific and multi-directional rage, not much else has been going on, so I guess that will do it for this entry.

The Universe Enjoying Its Saturday

Here we see the mangled remnants of the keyboard shelf from my computer desk:



Why is it mangled?
Because The Universe is a dick.
I sat down at the computer and slid the tray out to type in a URL, heard a popping sound, felt multiple pieces of something hitting my leg, and then the right side of the tray popped out from its guide rail, depositing my mouse and keyboard on the floor.
The multiple pieces of something were ball bearings that were part of the sliding mechanism in the rail. I gathered up as many of them as I could find, all the while getting hit in the head by the shelf, as it was still in its guide rail on the left side and was, as a result, flopping all over the place.
I found as many of the ball bearings as I could, then examined the mechanism to see if there was a way to put it back together. I thought I saw a way to do it, and began trying, in vain, to put the ball bearings back into place, dropping them multiple times.
(As a special bonus, the ball bearings were all sticky, as there was some viscous substance on them that was supposed to keep them in place. My hands are still sticky, as the stuff just won't wash off.)
Finally I gave up on trying to fix the broken part, having bent and broken it further in my attempts to repair it, and decided to see if I could get the tray to work without it, thinking maybe at worst the sliding action wouldn't be as smooth as it would be with the ball bearings.
Nope. Without that piece the tray would not stay in place.
...
Anyone who knows the Incredible Hulk in his comic book incarnation knows that "the madder Hulk gets, the stronger he gets."
As his rage sseemingly knows no bounds, the upper limits of his strength are, in theory, infinite.
For the past several years Marvel has been publishing various mini-series called "The End," focusing on potential futures that tell the "final" stories of some of their characters. One such mini-series focused on the Hulk.
In it, an ancient Bruce Banner is the only survivor of some cataclysm that destroyed humanity. He wanders alone through a barren hellscape looking for some way to end his life, but finding himself stymied at every turn by his green alter ego.
In addition to Banner, the world is inhabited by giant mutated insects, who, once a day, go out in search of food. The thing is, there isn't much left in the way of food other than Banner. So the insects descend on Banner, who, involuntarily in response to the threat, transforms into the Hulk and fights the insects off. However, there are just too many of them, and eventually the Hulk is overwhelmed. In addition to being largely invulnerable, the Hulk heals at a superhuman rate from any injury, so as the insects devour him, he regenerates continually, making him something of an all you can eat buffet, until, finally, the insects have their fill and go off on their way, leaving the carcass of the Hulk - picked clean like a post-Thanksgiving turkey - to grow the flesh back onto his bones and start the cycle over again.
It seems to me that, in that moment in which Hulk is completely overcome, he's probably so enraged that his strenth is approaching its maximum levels, yet for all that, there's nothing he can do.
That's sort of how I felt when dealing with the keyboard tray. I was so angry that I felt like I could split the world in two.
Of course, while I do share his penchant for rage, I differ from the Hulk in a significant way. Namely, the madder Jon gets, the clumsier he gets. While I've got the rage to split the world in two, I lack the strength, and even if I had the stregth I'd probably trip over my own feet while attempting to split the world in two, which, I suppose, is probably a good thing.
As I struggled to put things back together, and then struggled to simply take things apart just to get them out of the way, all I could do was shudder with impotent rage like the Hulk being devoured by insects.
Instead of splitting the world in two, I had to settle for bending some pieces of metal as I tore the left side of the drawer free from its guide rail.
I know that this isn't really a big dea; ultimately what I ended up doing was putting the mouse and keyboard on the desktop and raising my chair up so that my hands are at the correct level, and the only real inconvenience that stems from it is that I have to move the keyboard and mouse out of the way when I want to use the Cintiq.
But that's not really the point.
What is the point? How the hell should I know? I'm just the clumsy schmuck who encounters frustration - and stickiness - at virtually every turn.
In any case, I'm sure The Universe enjoyed the show, especially since it managed to get in its fun at my expense in a way that I could have never seen coming. Most of the time I can see what The Universe is up to - though in my case knowing is half of a losing battle - so I know that it likes it when it can hit me with something totally out of left field.