2010's Top Ten Bite Me List

Now that I’ve reached the age where society allows me an opinion, 55 years old and up which is suspiciously the same age grouping that receives a daily signup request from the AARP, I’ve decided to share a half century of ‘Bite Me’s’ in no particular order of disgust.

Graduates from elite colleges.  Seriously, does the college make the man?  I’ve got three Vanderbilt grads working for me that couldn’t peel an orange if they had a user’s manual, yet when employers start reviewing resumes they invariably look at education and where each candidate received their degree.  If one hopeful happened to attend the University of South Alabama and the other Harvard, guess which one gets the job?  Harvard everytime, and generally you can only tell the two apart because you saw the Harvard grads ring when he was picking his nose.  Having attended Faulkner University in Montgomery, Alabama I used to be concerned as to how this little bit of information might affect my career prospects.  Now, if I’m up for promotion or consideration as lead on a new project and am asked which college I attended, my answer is ‘Bite me.’

Cat lovers.  Yes, I’m quite sure they’re nice people.  I’m also quite sure they can’t help themselves.  They just have to continuously tell you about what their cat’s done lately that was so cute.  I’m sorry but cats are useless.  They don’t fetch.  They’re never really happy to see you at the end of a long work day.  They make lousy guards.  Their just there, taking up space.  Cat lovers are the Jehovah Witnesses of the pet owner world.  Their life’s mission is to convert all to the way of the cat.  Cats are so soothing.  They’re the purrrfect pet.  (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)  I have absolutely no problem with cat lovers.  Please just understand that not everyone’s a cat person.  As I’ve gotten older my first response to, ‘You need to get you a cat’ is ‘Oh yeah?  Bite me!’

Unmarried marriage counselors.  Bear in mind I’m not talking about professional counselors.  It takes a lot of gall to hang out a ‘Marriage Counselor’ shingle if you’ve never had first-hand experience although, I guess it’s no different than some government beaurocrat who’s never been a farmer telling farmers what or what not to grow.  I’m referring to those maiden Aunts, cousins or austere Church Ladies that are so quick to make it their business when you and the wife have a spat, yet they wouldn’t have a husband if he came with a Cadillac.  If you’ve never shared your life, and I mean SHARED your life, with a partner that knows you like the back of her hand, I am in no need of your advice.  If your wife’s never sold your golf clubs in her yard-sale for $10 because she thought you were done with them, you need to keep your advice to yourself.  Miss Francis came up to me last Sunday and commented that my wife looked a little put out.  I informed Miss Francis that she was mad at me over something.  When Miss Francis offered her friendly advice that I should be nicer to my wife, I offered right back that she should ‘Bite me.’  Of course, I said it in a nice way.

Childless child rearing experts.  These individuals fall into the same category as unmarried marriage counselors.  Don’t tell me how to raise my children if you don’t have any.  As a matter of fact, unless you have five, as I do, and they’re all boys, as mine are, your expertise is non-existent.  I have a great aunt, Bea, that feels it’s her calling by God to guarantee the proper raising of every child under the age of 21 in our small town.  I don’t just mean unwanted advice, I mean she takes an active role, going so far as to call parents and castigate them regarding some perceived lapse in moral behavior observed in their son or daughter.  This woman has never been married, never had children legitimate or otherwise.  I don’t think she’s ever been a baby-sitter yet, she’s supremely confident she can do a better job of child-rearing than the birth mother and rightful father.  Commenting to my wife at a recent family gathering regarding the constant bickering that takes place between our two youngest I happened to mention we needed to do something ‘about those two’.  Aunt Bea took that as her cue and as usual said, ‘You know what you need?’ to which I immediately replied, ‘Yes, I need you to bite me!’  I’m no longer in her will.

Wells Fargo Home Mortgage Company.  There was a time I lived in fear of creditors.  To allay that fear I got rid of all creditors except, of course, my mortgage holder which happens, or happened, to be Wells Fargo.  They have no English speaking employees and there’s a very simple reason why.  No one is required to answer the phone.  They will call you if your mortgage payment if 30 minutes late but if you have need to converse with Wells Fargo a magic eight ball would suit you better, and probably provide more reasonable answers.  Wells Fargo makes use of a layered answering services.  Your first call will be greeted with the offer of five options, each of which takes you to a second menu with five options, which takes you to a third with five options until you hang up in disgust.  If you are lucky enough to get a human they are incapable of forming any words that do not appear on a script displayed on the monitor they’re obviously reading from, in broken English.  Before I got rid of Wells Fargo I came up with a unique solutions, guaranteed to get a human representative I could conduct business with in understandable English.  I wouldn’t pay the mortgage, forcing them to call me to find out what the problem was.  At the end of each conversation the representative was undoubtedly required to ask if there would be anything else.  My standard response became, ‘Yes, you may now bite me.’

Rabid environmentalist.  Before tree and animal huggers start splashing red paint on my front door let me say I’m all for protecting our environment.  I live on this planet too.  It’s just that, as a group these, shall we say energetic folks, tend to carry things just a little too far.  Too much of a good thing becomes a bad thing.  I love ice cream but, too much ice cream can kill you.  The same holds true with rabid environmentalists.  They go to such extremes their message gets lost in the ridicule.  When the life of a one inch pleany darter, a tiny fish, living in a creek that just happens to run through a corner of the site for a new cancer treatment center becomes more important than the treatment of cancer patients, I have a problem.  Since man has been keeping track literally thousands of species of animals have become extinct.  98% of these extinctions man had nothing to do with.  Man is not on the same level as the pleany darter.  At least I’m not.  Pleany darters can’t even play golf.  I’m all for being a good steward of our home planet but if you’re going to lower me to the level of a purple, spotted Columbian tree toad, you can bite me.

Preachers of tolerance.  Preachers being the key word here.  I know tolerance.  I have five children.  If I weren’t tolerant I’d only have two left.  Patience and tolerance are two of my greatest virtues.  Tolerance is a good thing, just don’t preach tolerance to me.  No one is ever flat out wrong anymore.  We have pushed tolerance as far as it will go.  We’re required to be tolerant of just about every despicable act performed by man for no other reason save the name of tolerance.  For fear of appearing politically or socially incorrect we tolerate thieves, child pornographers, liars, tax cheats, politicians, terrorists, illegal immigrants and Larry King when we should put our foot down and demand action.  I’ve learned to tolerate anything and everything except the Los Angeles Lakers and my mother-in-law.  Preaching tolerance to me will get you a quick ‘Bite me’.

Non-smokers or smokers who’ve quit.  You know who you are.  You know how you act.  Bite me.

School teachers from the past.  I loved high school.  Actually, I loved going to school period.  I’m thankful to say I had a number of great teachers I have fond memories of.  There are also a few I would have gladly run over had I had owned a car or been allowed to drive.  These were those teachers who made Attila the Hun look like Barney Fife and made your school life a living hell.  We all know who they are because we all had one at one time or another.  It never fails when you happen upon one of these Cruella Devilles somewhere down the line they act as if you were their favorite student when you know, and they know, they treated you as if you were a rat in a cage or a prisoner of war.  Ms. Underwood, my seventh grade math teacher, I know for a fact was Stalin’s meaner, younger sister.  This woman sent me to the principal’s office at least once a week over a span of 24 consecutive weeks.  Many times because she couldn’t determine the true culprit so I became the surrogate punishee. When I ran into her not too long ago at WalMart she acted as though I were her long lost child.  She threw her arms open for me to give her a hug and seemed genuinely shocked when I told her to bite me.  Go figure.

Anyone younger than 21 years of age.  I don’t take advice from anyone that hasn’t graduated from college.  Especially if it wasn’t Harvard.  If you’re under 21 and you feel the need to tell me how, why, where or when to do something, I offer a ‘bite me’ in advance.  If you’ve never had Jiffy Pop cooked on a stove top, bite me.  If you don’t know who the Beatles are, bite me.  If you’ve never actually dialed a telephone, bite me.  Never been to a drive in, bite me.  If you’ve never owned a TV with only 13 channels and no cable hookup, bite me.  I’m not saying you’re a bad person or that you lack intelligence.  I’m not saying you might not be right.  All I’m saying is I’ve reached the age where I don’t want to hear what you think so don’t offer advice.  I’m running out of bite me’s.