No, dudes, I am not advocating speeding…much. Just the idea that sometimes I see “rules” that I’m pretty sure people have just made up. Like those little stop signs in the mall parking lot. I mean, come on, those aren’t even regulation size. I can’t be expected to take that seriously. What are they going to do? Chase me with one of those golf carts? At least THAT’S regulation size.
Why don’t they let you use the bathroom 30 minutes before landing? Because now that you’ve said it….I totally have to go now. 5 minutes ago … NOTHING. But as soon as that light goes one….it’s on like DonkeyKong and then I can’t think about anything else. I think they should do a fake-out announcement, [psyche!] then let you go to the bathroom, and a few minutes later, turn on the real light. That little gem of advice is free, FAA…unlike my first checked-bag. 
OH and don’t even get me started on why you can’t bring your own candy to the movie theatre. And no, it’s not because it costs $15 to buy SourPatch Kids…it’s because they never have the candy that I want right then. Maybe I’m in the mood for a PayDay? Why? Because those are freakin’ delicious, that’s why. And I deserve a break. Oh wait. That’s for when I want a KitKat. Shit. What’s the PayDay slogan?
Great. This is going to bug me. All. Freaking. Day.
And then there’s my dry cleaner. You all know that I’m amazed by their whirling carousel of clothes. What is that crazy magic? But that still doesn’t explain why they make me pay in advance for one-day service. I’m already having to drop it off by 8am. Are they thinking that I purposely got up early to drop off that shit just to stiff ’em with the bill later? Apparently they underestimate my laziness when it comes to martinizing.
Speaking of laziness, what happened to all those “no-shirt, no-shoes, no-service” signs. Those disappeared around the time those tree-hugging, dirt-munching hippies became beamer drivin’ overfocused yuppies. I, for one, think they should bring those back – but this time, make it “no pajamas” signs. I hate seeing faded flannel at 3 in the afternoon. Unless you are Michael Jackson, you can’t wear pajama pants in public. And let’s face it – he WAS a musical genius but he was ALSO bat-shit crazy.
Because, for the love of Pete, I had to get dressed this morning to drop off my dry cleaning… so should all those lazy asses.