I HATE YOU: Ungrateful SOB Asking For Directions

I'm gonna keep this one short because I was out drinking tonight. And though I only had two pints of beer (Stella to be exact) and that's really a rather pussy amount, it's a lot on an empty stomach, which is what I had, because I forgot to eat lunch. Because I was too busy looking for sweet-ass videos for you guys instead. Yeah, it's a fact--I CARE about you guys. Let's have a good cry about it. But hey, who's that grabbing my left nut? Can you let go? Thanks much.

Anyways, I'm not here for a lovefest. I'm here for a hate...convention. And there was a motherfucker I encountered this week who's just begging to be the keynote speaker at said convention. Because at the Hate Convention, after you say your piece, everyone gets to drop a deuce all over you. And that's what this guy needs. A face full of poo.

Why so much ire this time around? Well, the drinks in me, for one. But also because the guy I'm writing about today was someone I went out of my way to help...and he decided to shit all over me. And when he was done, he popped all his hemorrhoids all over my face.

Let me set the scene. I was on 33rd street and 7th avenue in Manhattan. Readers of this column will recognize the neighborhood I'm describing as the place where I wait while my girlfriend is at work. This was during rush hour, so the sidewalk was very crowded and on top of that 33rd and 7th is directly between two entrances to Penn Station (remember that, it'll come back later), which is a train station, so there's always tons of people walking around.

In the middle of the whole mess I hear a gruff voice behind me. "Excuuuse me, bro." It's an Italian guy, most likely from Jersey. Imagine if the Sopranos were fatter and poorer and wore sweatpants with holes. At first, I wasn't sure the guy was talking to me, but I turned around anyways and at that point he engaged me in some "c'mere" eye contact.

"Hey bro!" he said. "Which way's Penn Station?" Well, this was an interesting question. There wasn't just one answer. It was "straight ahead" OR it was "right back where you came from." But both entrances didn't lead directly to Penn Station...one was housed inside of Madison Square Garden and the other was behind a shoe store. Kinda complicated, right?

So I started. "Well, there are two ways...one way, you can go straight ahead, but you gotta make sure to follow signs so you don't end up in the Garden. The other way, it's straight back where you came from, but it's tucked behind that shoe store...and there are a few entrances on 8th ave as well..."

He looked at me dumbfounded. Then he turned to a passerby and laughed, turned back to me and yelped "Thaks a FOCKIN' LOT, bro," pushed past me and went towards 6th avenue (AKA the ONE WRONG DIRECTION he could've gone).

WHAT THE FUCK! Dude, I gave you some amazing advice. It's not my fault your mom was also your aunt (and your dad's also your uncle). Didn't anyone ever tell you to not look a gift horse in the mouth? Well, the same applies for me, motherfucker! Don't look at me in the mouth. Stop...hey, stop looking at me in the mouth.

Anyways, this guy just struck a nerve. One of my biggest pet peeves is when people asking for help are rude. Because I'm a helpful guy and I don't even need a thank you when I help you. I just don't need the fuckin' guff. But since you gave it to me, I'm giving you the I HATE YOU royal treatment. You SON.OF.A.BITCH.