I Am Sick and Tired of Elon Musk Stealing All My Best Ideas

“I’m not meant to be stuck in middle management.”

I WANTED TO GO TO SPACE AND TUNNEL UNDER L.A.

Everyday I sit in my cubicle as Regional Director of the Smith and Jensen Business Solutions Client Retention department – Central Division – and have to read headline after headline of some new thing Elon Musk is doing, that I had already thought of. Like when I went to Anaheim for the big logistics conference and I had to sit in traffic on Interstate 405 between LAX and its endless sprawl of suburbs I slammed my head into my steering wheel and screamed at my windshield “SOMEBODY SHOULD DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS TRAFFIC!” Lo and behold, the VERY NEXT YEAR, Elon Musk comes out with the Boring Co. and starts digging tunnels under California’s most populated metropolis like a goddam hamster.

And just to rub it in my face, he starts selling flame throwers. I LOVE FLAME THROWERS! Ever since I was a kid I was like “Man, flamethrowers are awesome. Nobody would fuck with me if I have a flamethrower. Jimmy wouldn’t throw rocks at me if I had a flamethrower. My dad would mow his own fucking lawn.” In fact, just yesterday I was thinking about how I’d love to take a flamethrower into my boss’ office and show him just how good my ideas are and why I don’t just need to sit and listen during the weekly status report meeting and that my ideas and opinions have value. I’m the one that said we should put a vending machine in the breakroom! Not Tom! But he got the promotion.

When I saw the movie Interstellar I thought to myself “If Matthew McConaughey can go to space, why not me?” I’m capable. I run shit. I’m the Regional Director for Client Retention at Smith and Jensen Business Solutions – Central Division. I should start a space company and go to space and show my wife that she’s not the only one with good ideas. That I have ideas too. I have an idea for a space company. The kind of space company that goes to outer space. Not just the moon. Fuck the moon. I wanna make a space ship that can travel at the speed of light and make important discoveries and become a billionaire because I have good ideas. So, maybe this time, I’d like to weigh in on which color fabric our couch should be. Instead of just showing up to this uncomfortable charcoal monstrosity she sits to watch the Bachelor on.

Tesla was obvious. I would’ve gone with a different name, but at least 8 years ago I thought it would be cool to have an electric sports car that was basically a computer where you could watch YouTube while the car drove you home from the bar by itself. That was MY idea. One day after work, after my boss really laid into me for saving a client that was costing us millions in PR after their CEO dropped an N-bomb on a cable news show, I was at the bar tossing back Old Fashions with my then-buddy Tom. I was telling him about how I wish I could just take out a flamethrower and burn it all down and then just jump in my spaceship and leave when I burped out “I’m pretty fucked up. I wish my car could drive me home.” And then, just like that, I read a headline about Tesla’s autopilot software allowing people to sleep off their hangovers on their way to work. And I don’t get credit for shit.

So, yeah. I’m pretty sick and tired of it. Because while he gets to go on podcasts and smoke pot and go to space and drive in tunnels, I have to show up everyday, to my job at Smith and Jensen Business Solutions as Regional Fucking Director of Client Retention – Central Division.

While We’re Upgrading Every Bathroom to “All Gender,” Think We Can Add Changing Tables to What Used to Be the Mens Room?

Dear Dining Establishments of America –

I get it. You guys gotta cater to every group. That’s why every fast food establishment has wheel chair access for the crippled, double doors for the morbidly obese, and now many are including “all gender” bathrooms for men who wear makeup and go by Estrella. Cool beans.  You gotta keep your target market happy to stay in business, I guess. Quick question: How many of these post-ops are ordering Happy Meals? Never mind. But while you’re changing the bathrooms anyways, think you can do us dads a solid and give us changing tables in what used to be the mens room?

In a modern society where a growing number of households have a working mother, sometimes the dad has to take these little shits out to feed them. And sometimes these little shits, have little shits. My current modus operandi is just to change my shit-covered daughter on the table right there in the dining area. But a man can only half-heartedly shrug to so many gagging Taco Bell patrons before he says “enough is enough” and writes an opinion piece.

It’s bad enough that I have to wait for this (and I’m going to be politically correct here) “dude” to change “his” tampon before I can take a leak. And it’s pretty insulting that I can see the changing table in what used to be the women’s bathrooms as the gentleman ahead of me saunters in to piss on the toilet seat. But I guess America thinks it’s more important to cater to the 3 million Caitlyns out there wanting to feel pretty while they’re taking a dump than the 11 million Bruces out there with kids in diapers.

Look. I don’t give a shit who uses what bathroom. I just want changing tables in them. They’re not just good for babies. They’re also a nice, clean place to set your purse when you’re re-tucking your nutsack into your panties. And since you’re doing a politically correct re-mod anyways, why not be more inclusive of cis-hetero-binary-breeder-types – or whatever the fuck we’re called this week.

While you’re trying to be inclusive of everybody by opening your urinals up to everyone in pants, shorts or a dress, you’re actually reinforcing gender norms by only having changing tables in one bathroom. I want the same bathroom options as our gender breaking breth- and sis- tren: To choose whatever line is the shortest to take a piss and change my kid.

While We’re Upgrading Every Bathroom to All Gender, Think We Can Add Changing Tables to What Used to Be the Mens Room?

Dear Dining Establishments of America –

I get it. You guys gotta cater to every group. That’s why every fast food establishment has wheel chair access for the crippled, double doors for the morbidly obese, and now many are including “all gender” bathrooms for men who wear makeup and go by Estrella. Cool beans.  You gotta keep your target market happy to stay in business, I guess. Quick question: How many of these post-ops are ordering Happy Meals? Never mind. But while you’re changing the bathrooms anyways, think you can do us dads a solid and give us changing tables in what used to be the mens room?

In a modern society where a growing number of households have a working mother, sometimes the dad has to take these little shits out to feed them. And sometimes these little shits, have little shits. My current modus operandi is just to change my shit-covered daughter on the table right there in the dining area. But a man can only half-heartedly shrug to so many gagging Taco Bell patrons before he says “enough is enough” and writes an opinion piece.

It’s bad enough that I have to wait for this (and I’m going to be politically correct here) “dude” to change “his” tampon before I can take a leak. And it’s pretty insulting that I can see the changing table in what used to be the women’s bathrooms as the gentleman ahead of me saunters in to piss on the toilet seat. But I guess America thinks it’s more important to cater to the 3 million Caitlyns out there wanting to feel pretty while they’re taking a dump than the 11 million Bruces out there with kids in diapers.

Look. I don’t give a shit who uses what bathroom. I just want changing tables in them. They’re not just good for babies. They’re also a nice, clean place to set your purse when you’re re-tucking your nutsack into your panties. And since you’re doing a politically correct re-mod anyways, why not be more inclusive of cis-hetero-binary-breeder-types – or whatever the fuck we’re called this week.

While you’re trying to be inclusive of everybody by opening your urinals up to everyone in pants, shorts or a dress, you’re actually reinforcing gender norms by only having changing tables in one bathroom. I want the same bathroom options as our gender breaking breth- and sis- tren: To choose whatever line is the shortest to take a piss and change my kid.



Holy F*ck, When Did Monkey Bars Get So Hard?

I don’t know who decided to – or how they even did – increase the difficulty level of monkey bars, but holy fuck are those things hard. I got four bars into showing my 4 year old how much “fun” they are before I collapsed to the ground, clutching at my (probably) torn lat muscle.

Monkey bars are hard enough to find these days with all these pussyfart playgrounds making a play at safety. I already have to go to the bad part of town to find a rusted over set. And even those have been retrofitted somehow to operate at maximum difficulty. We can’t get kids the school supplies we need, but we have enough tax dollars update the monkey bars at “Gang Hangout Park?”

I’m just trying to play with my kids. I don’t need to be injured if some cracked-out street urchin decides my wallet is keeping his money warm. They need to make them like they did when I was a kid. Easy. Low impact. Unpainted metal. Cold in the winter. Blistering in the summer. But still, easy enough that you get bored before you get tired. Make those kinds of monkey bars again.

I never thought I’d say this but, hats off to those ISIS guys crushing their playground training. We all laughed at the leaked terrorist training videos. Haha. Their soldiers play recess. But none of us went to the park to give it a spin. None of us.

I get that I’m getting older. I’m probably not gonna do a four minute mile any time soon. But I don’t need to be shamed by “Big Monkey Bar” when it comes to playing with my kids. They didn’t have to change the design to make them all hard. These new play grounds are all designed for like The Rock or some shit. No wonder all the kids are fat. Probably so “Big Pharma” can pump them full of diabetes pills. Those “Bigs” are all in cahoots. I’ll have Alex Jones look into it.

I want my kids to have the same monkey bar fun I had. Gliding over the ground, skipping bars, leg wrestling, doing swinging backflips into the sand, pushing the nerds off. Fun stuff. Not training for American Ninja Warrior.

Speaking of sand. Where the fuck is the sand? Who decided woods chips and shredded up tires are better for the kids? I never ate sand as a kid, but I can’t turn my back for 30 seconds to crack open a cold one without my little one shoving half those “safer” recycled tire bits in his mouth. That little shit – I love him to death, but – it’s like anything but the $25 Sophie giraffe chew toy is what he wants to grind on. I don’t think we need to worry about a college savings account for that one. We probably just need a bail fund.

These new, impossibly hard, monkey bars have gotta go back to what they were when I was a kid so I can show my kids what a badass I am on a set of bars. Frankly, I don’t know why they ever changed them AND, I don’t know how my 6 year just flies across them like nothing! She’s a beast!

Really? This Crazy Lady Gets to Bring Her Service Horse on the Plane For Free, But I Gotta Pay Full Fare For My Emotional Support Wife?

When I read that Southwest Airlines was allowing horses on their planes as support animals, I was like “Hell yeah! Vegas, here I come!” But when I showed up with my Emotional Support Wife in tow and they were like “Where’s her ticket?” I was like “You gotta be kidding.”

Look, I don’t give a shit if you’re afraid to fly. I’m afraid to fly too. All the Budweiser in the world ain’t gonna give me sac enough to sit calmly in a hurtling death tube that sucks in air and farts out clouds at 35,000 feet all thanks to hundreds of gallons of combustible liquid yards away from my ass. I don’t know if I’m gonna land calmly at McCarran or screaming my head off slamming into the side of a mountain. Planes are scary. That’s why they serve alcohol.

I got shit that makes me worry too. What if I die?

Who’s gonna handle the bills? Who’s gonna teach my son to throw a ball? What happens if the water heater goes out? What if I die before I get a chance to clear my Google search history and my daughter finds it first? I don’t want her to remember me like that. She used to sit on my lap.

I get it. I get why we need to bring our animals on the plane. I just don’t get why this crazy bitch gets to bring her goddam horse on the plane for free, but my rock, my security blanket, my service animal – Rebecca – has to pay for a fucking ticket?

She’s got a pink vest. Just like that stupid horse. I even wrote “Do Not Touch” on it so people know the vest is legit.

I bring my Service Wife everywhere else that other service animals go and nobody bats an eye. Nobody says “no wives allowed, sir.” That would be discrimination. Discrimination against me and my mental incapacities. But for some reason these airlines think it’s like, goddam 1998 or something when it comes to Service Wives. You know, back in those intolerant days of airline travel where if you tried to bring a dog, or a horse, or a pig on a plane, you’d be laughed right out of the fucking airport lobby.

It used to be that if you wanted to bring a dog on the plane, you’d have to stow her in the cargo hold. Now they get to sit on your lap and bark at the squeaky wheel on the service cart. My wife can be just as annoying as that dog. She’ll even shit in the aisle if you pay her twenty bucks. She’s a hell of a gal. Your stupid dog rides for free. But my beautiful wife costs money like she’s some goddam piece of checked baggage or some shit.

I wanna fly. I really do. You can’t take those Sunset Station Casino player points with you! But I get nervous when I’m on a plane alone. And when I get nervous I breath real heavy-like. And then I clutch the armrests. Sometimes, I even close my eyes. That’s why it’s nice to have Becky there to calm me down and say “Here honey, have another drink.” If I didn’t have her there to lick my face when I’m scared, I might… be real scared. And that’s not something I should have to deal with for three to four hours of my life. I pay my taxes! Fear is not an option! I need comfort 100% of the time.

That’s why, I don’t think anything is wrong with having an emotional support dog, or horse, or turkey, or python. Whatever gets you through the hell that is sitting there, watching a movie, eating pretzels, on a plane. I just think it’s fucked up that when it comes to my emotional well being, I gotta pay a premium. I thought we were better than that.

These airlines are the true animals.

This Service Horse Rides For Free, But I Gotta Pay Full Price for My Emotional Support Wife?

Hey Wilbur.

When I read that Southwest Airlines was allowing horses on their planes as support animals, I was like “Hell yeah! Vegas, here I come!” But when I showed up with my Emotional Support Wife in tow and they were like “Where’s her ticket?” I was like “You gotta be kidding.”

Look, I don’t give a shit if you’re afraid to fly. I’m afraid to fly too. All the Budweiser in the world ain’t gonna give me sac enough to sit calmly in a hurtling death tube that sucks in air and farts out clouds at 35,000 feet all thanks to hundreds of gallons of combustible liquid yards away from my ass. I don’t know if I’m gonna land calmly at McCarran or screaming my head off slamming into the side of a mountain. Planes are scary. That’s why they serve alcohol.

I got shit that makes me worry too. What if I die?

Who’s gonna handle the bills? Who’s gonna teach my son to throw a ball? What happens if the water heater goes out? What if I die before I get a chance to clear my Google search history and my daughter finds it first? I don’t want her to remember me like that. She used to sit on my lap.

I get it. I get why we need to bring our animals on the plane. I just don’t get why this crazy bitch gets to bring her goddam horse on the plane for free, but my rock, my security blanket, my service animal – Rebecca – has to pay for a fucking ticket?

She’s got a pink vest. Just like that stupid horse. I even wrote “Do Not Touch” on it so people know the vest is legit.

I bring my Service Wife everywhere else that other service animals go and nobody bats an eye. Nobody says “no wives allowed, sir.” That would be discrimination. Discrimination against me and my mental incapacities. But for some reason these airlines think it’s like, goddam 1998 or something when it comes to Service Wives. You know, back in those intolerant days of airline travel where if you tried to bring a dog, or a horse, or a pig on a plane, you’d be laughed right out of the fucking airport lobby.

It used to be that if you wanted to bring a dog on the plane, you’d have to stow her in the cargo hold. Now they get to sit on your lap and bark at the squeaky wheel on the service cart. My wife can be just as annoying as that dog. She’ll even shit in the aisle if you pay her twenty bucks. She’s a hell of a gal. Your stupid dog rides for free. But my beautiful wife costs money like she’s some goddam piece of checked baggage or some shit.

I wanna fly. I really do. You can’t take those Sunset Station Casino player points with you! But I get nervous when I’m on a plane alone. And when I get nervous I breath real heavy-like. And then I clutch the armrests. Sometimes, I even close my eyes. That’s why it’s nice to have Becky there to calm me down and say “Here honey, have another drink.” If I didn’t have her there to lick my face when I’m scared, I might… be real scared. And that’s not something I should have to deal with for three to four hours of my life. I pay my taxes! Fear is not an option! I need comfort 100% of the time.

That’s why, I don’t think anything is wrong with having an emotional support dog, or horse, or turkey, or python. Whatever gets you through the hell that is sitting there, watching a movie, eating pretzels, on a plane. I just think it’s fucked up that when it comes to my emotional well being, I gotta pay a premium. I thought we were better than that.

These airlines are the true animals.