Things My Friend Charlie Peterschmidt Hates: A Text-Message Epistolary

 

Random text from him today:

CP: Did you find out?

Me: Find out what?

CP: About the neighbor with Tourette’s. Does he have Tourrette’s?

Me: I didn’t ask him, but I’m pretty sure that’s the case. There are random shouts of unfettered rage and hostility from across the apartment complex parking lot.

Charlie's reply was:

Man I wish I lived next door to him. …By the way, I hate people who drink coffee from a mug and hold it by the handle and ‘slurp’ their coffee from it. Hate them.

Along those lines, he once told me that if he sees someone take a long pull from a beer stein at a bar, draining the glass, and then slamming it on the bar and saying with a curled lip, the word, “Pub!” that he’ll have a stroke.

Later, whilst watching a basketball game, Charlie delivers to me the following:

“Sea cucumbers are more relevant to this world than Rutgers basketball.”

“Their fans are actually cheering. What do they have to cheer about!?!?!!! Huh!!? You’re down 14… but when you score it’s such a god damn miracle, you go crazy… Yell it up in your stupid high school gym. It’s like we’re playing the dredges [sic] of society.”

“It pisses me off that they have fan support.”

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Whilst watching a different basketball game (Notre Dame v. Villanova), Charlie provides:

“Little fucking Leprechaun fans dancing around… so happy. If I was there I would gag myself on purpose to puke on them.”

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On poor officiating:

“I’m so mad I can’t feel my face.”

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Hair that jiggles.

CP (shaking me affectionately by the shoulders): "It's been good to see you, buddy. (Eyes widening). But your hair... you need a haircut. It looks like if somebody hit you in the head with a basketball right now, your hair would jiggle all over. It looks like... like... well, like something that would piss me off."

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"If I see someone hold their pinky out while they drink tea or coffee, I'm breaking it."


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"Know what I hate? When people take a long drink of something refreshing, especially a carbonated beverage or a cold beer or even Gatorade--if they drink it and then go, 'Ahhhhghgh' afterward--then I hate them. Hate them."


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Myriad random texts:

I still hate Michael Dukakis… I saw a picture of him and it reminded me of how much I hate him. (May 2011)

You know what pisses me off? When I can look at a random white person... i.e., anyone not of African-American or Mexican decent... no color in their skin... just like you and me... and I can tell that they aren't American... Like if I saw some white dude and before he even opened his mouth... if I could tell he was Norwegian... that would piss me off. If you are going to be white, you need to look like us. (July 2011)

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CP: What is more unacceptable than an adult with a pophft* haircut that moves when he moves?...

Me: Driving right now.  Need a minute to think...

CP: Times up!!  ...The answer is a child with a pophft haircut. As in my neighbor's son prancing around in his front yard, big head and pophft hair flailing around on top of his weak neck in his tight long pant underoos, making his legs appear even skinnier and his head even bigger.  ...Disgust...  It should be mandatory for all kids to have buzz cuts until their body catches up to their awkwardly big heads.  (Derby Day, 2012).

*Pophft: The image below exhibits a *pophft haircut on an adult male.

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RANDOM TEXTS:

What also pisses me off is when you go through a drive-thru like at McDonald's, and they put the receipt into your hand BEFORE your change... thus causing the loose change to land on the paper and fall out of your hand. Plus, why do you need a receipt from McDonald's?

 

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Something else... 12-packs of Coke that aren't opened properly and with care, in order for the cans to roll forward as intended by the designer.

Porn Flakes and Crabs Macaroni & Dickcheese

< < < WARNING: Adult content. > > >

During the winter of 2001, I was in between jobs. To tie me over whilst unemployed, a former colleague invited me to babysit his eBay-based business that sold reconditioned laptops out of his apartment while he took a trip to Cancun with his new dame. A good man, that Jay Hornswoggle.

What did Jay have in his creaky Old Louisville apartment, under his mattress? Porn mags. Actual slicks that, incomprehensibly, they continued to publish and sell at Blue Movies in the year 2001 (before they tore down Blue Movies and replaced it with a sports bar). This was also ironic because Jay had a pretty solid internet connection for 2001.

Upon ensuring that none of Jay’s porn mags’ pages were stuck together, and now touched by his entrepreneurial spirit, I got the idea to devise my own product line. All I needed was scissors, glue, and an inkjet printer... plus some common groceries I could buy at the Kroghetto down the street. Upon completion, I didn’t use Jay’s eBay account to try to sell my wares, but I did put them up for auction under my own name.

Here was my pitch:

*** Porn Flakes ***

 *** Crabs Macaroni & Dickcheese ***

 *** ButtNuggets and PubeCakes ***

ONE-OF-A-KIND PIECES!

Don't miss your chance to get these

authentic 100% unique novelty products.
No others like them in the world.

"Perfect gifts for the depraved, disgusting,

social degenerate in your life."

 

These fine antiquities, hand-crafted in the USA,

date as far back as 1994.

All items bundled for one sale.
So… ACT NOW!

Sold AS IS… 

(Some items slightly worn from the natural decomposition
caused by sitting quietly in a closet.) 

Must be 18 to purchase.

 

~~  PLUS  ~~

Order now to receive this special bonus—a rare collector’s item.*

A genuine TERMINATOR 2 holographic wristwatch!

 *Probably not a collector’s item.

-- ADDENDUM --

[April 12, 2014]

The Sta-Green® company yoinked my trade name.

That's ok.
They specialize in treating a different kind of undergrowth.

-- ADDENDUM --

[May 13, 2014]
My friend just reminded me of a time 20 years ago, when I would write the names of some of these yummy treats on my poor mom's grocery list.
I'll never forget her coming home from Kroger and telling me, "I couldn't find Areola Rounds."

Dear Bicycle Thief...

Do you want my helmet and bike rack to go along with it? Here they are, sitting on the staircase next to the broken lock which you perverted with your shitty bolt-cutters. How about that? To buy a pair of bolt-cutters with the sole purpose of stealing bikes.

I am not a violent person, but with the range of emotion that comes with learning that your stuff has been filched, it’s easy to wonder how fast you can punch someone in the Adam’s apple before he can react. If you have any plans of riding my bike within five miles of my home over the next few weeks, be sure to ride with one eyeball glancing over your shoulder, bitch. You penniless, gutless loser. You swine.

…After the knee-jerk response to being personally violated by theft resides, it becomes easier to rationalize that the thief must have needed (whatever was stolen) more than its actual owner. Except that I purchased that bike with my own money, that I earned legitimately. You didn’t. I bought it from a local shop owner who later was killed crossing the street because he had gout and couldn’t walk fast enough. One time, on a drunken ride home in the dark, I hit a curb and went head-over-handlebars with a face-plant on the sidewalk. No concussion. I envision you not being so lucky. And get a load of this: I farted on that bicycle seat more times than I can count.

Now that you know some history of my bike that you stole, how will your head feel after my rusty axle bearing fails? Will you find yourself speeding down the dip on Parker when the wheel blows because I over-inflated the tires and your fat ass caused a puncture? When you land on the street, will your head crack open like a cantaloupe? In a state of shock, will you scoop up your grey matter—which looks like fresh ground beef when it’s newly spilled—and try to put it back in?  

You are an embarrassment to humanity. A waste of space, an asshole casserole with the soulless objective of stealing peoples’ shit because you couldn’t earn the scratch to buy your own shit. Thereby, I cannot let it rest: I tried, but you’re just too goddamn irredeemable.

Justice, for me, is a very complicated matter. But certain things are black and white. I would have given you $20 dollars if you’d just sold me on why you can’t afford a bus pass because you’re jobless, living off your whore of a girlfriend and hating it. But now I can only ask if you’re ready for the axe to fall, whence your hands will be cut off.

Fuck you.