- Words that aren't spelled like they sound. I hate the English language, what a freakin' hodgepodge. Eye before Ee, except after Cee - the rules, they're just plain arbitrary. Strunk and White were drunkards. Every rule of English grammar (See? See? Why is it "grammar" instead of "grammer?" Drunkards, I say) is stolen from a real language. English is the duck-billed platypus of written communications.
- Installation programs that open a dialog box with an indicator bar to gauge the progress of the installation - and when they get to 'zero seconds remaining' they just sit there. Forever. And ever. And for freakin' ever. Goddamn it, there's obviously a few stinking seconds remaining, isn't there? It's like the program is just taunting me. A computer is basically just a fancy clock, would it be so damned hard to show an accurate progress bar? Well, would it?
- The bell on my toaster oven. Hell, the bell, beeper, buzzer, binger, dinger, donger, or ringer on any damned machine. I hate being preemptively summoned by the the toaster. Hate. It. The toaster oven has a loud shrill electronic bell that bleats like a panicked republican at a gay pride parade. Seven times when the toast is done. Seven times. Seven. Jesus Pea Picking Christ on a left-handed chrome-plated gas-powered pogo stick, if I let the damned toast get cold before I remember to get it - then that's how I like it today. Piss off, toaster oven, it's just toast not the end of the world. And the buzzer on the damned clothes dryer, holy battle stations Batman! Nuclear alert warnings for a Soviet first strike weren't that loud, shrill, or persistent. Buzz! Buzz! Hurry! Hurry! Your raggedy work pants are getting wrinkled. Help! Alert! Sooner or later I'm going to take a hammer to the Maytag man. I don't like taking orders from a machine and I really don't like machines that talk. Don't even get me started on those demon-spawned self checkout lines with the smarmy computer voice that sounds like bad Majel Barrat from the evil alternate Star Trek universe in Mirror, Mirror.
- Splash screens. Modal splash screens. You know, the ones that pop up while the big bloated program loads and sit square in the middle of your screen blocking everything else so you can't check email or do anything useful until the goddamned program is finished loading? Yeah, those. I hate those damn things. Kiss my chapped ass, Adobe.
- Those damned paper subscription postcards stuffed into magazines.
- Cat hair. I've got two big house cats (yes, and one wee Shop Kat). The two house cats shed like you would not believe. Seriously, I get enough hair on a daily basis to knit an entire other cat. Sometimes I find giant wads of cat hair, like some freakish dust bunny hopped up on Hair Club For Men, big enough to clog the Dyson industrial vacuum cleaner. What the hell is the purpose of this? If you're into evolution, what possible survival characteristic is continuous and sustained marathon shedding selected for? If you're all about the creation thing, what possible reason for this furry blizzard could there be other than God hates me?
- Spam. No not the canned pork-like product. I like that, especially fried. The other kind of spam. Spam pisses me off. Spammers piss me off. People who click on spam piss me off.
- DVDs. I hate everything about DVDs. Stupid, slow, ugly, crippled over-priced technology. I hate that dumb FBI warning that I can't jump over. I hate the idiotic packaging on new DVDs, sealed, shrink wrapped, security enabled, double banded, locked, blocked, chocked, and wrapped in a rabid pitbull's colon. For crying into your tomato soup, those spent plutonium casks the DOE is transporting through your neighborhood to Yucca Mountain aren't sealed half so well. Good God, it's a three dollar copy of Doc Hollywood that I got out of the bargain bin at Wal-Mart, I'm not going to steal the fucking thing - even if it does have Julie Warner naked in it. But more than anything, I hate DVD menus. I hate them with the heat of a thousand flaming suns being ripped apart in nuclear agony by ravening black holes spawned in the hearts of dying galaxies. I hate them. Every damned menu is an opportunity for repressed neverbeenlaid technogeeks who dream of becoming real movie directors to express their creativity. Just get to the controls already! And then, when the controls finally do appear after ten minutes of clipped scenes and clever sound bites and swirling effects, there is no standardization to the controls at all. You can't hardly tell which damned button is selected by the little curly cursor thingy and then when you finally do get it onto the Play Movie button, well do you push "Play" or "Enter" or "the magic button that does nothing anywhere else so we made it start the movie button because we know how much you enjoy DVD menu control cryptography and getting to know your remote?" Seriously, pick a fucking standard, Menu Geeks.
- Lowerider jeans. Ten pounds of ass in a five pound bag. Nobody looks good in those. Nobody. Really. Seriously ladies, from behind you look like you've got a load in your britches. A woman's ass should be heart shaped, not shaped like a stack of bricks on a pallet. I'm going to be honest with you all, lowriders make you look like a Shar Pei stuffed into a one of those doggy Halloween costumes. But that's not what irritates me, no. What irks me about lowriders jeans is the constant hitching. Goddamn, ladies, this entire generation looks like it's been infected with mad cow disease. Women must spend 80% of their day hitching those stupid pants up and pulling their little belly shirts down and bitching about the cold. You're cold because your clothes don't cover your ass, that's the whole damned problem.
- and lastly, Dick Cheney and Alberto Gonzales indicted by a south Texas Grand Jury for the mistreatment of foreign prisoners and it doesn't even make the major news feeds above the fold. It chaps my ass that it's taken this long. It chaps my ass that their boss isn't included in the indictment. And it chaps my ass that the America people don't care enough about it to even notice.
Yes, I'm feeling crabby today. Can you tell?
So, what chaps your ass?