EMOrons

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Really aging myself there, but when I see them out on the streets I just want to kidnap one home to wipe off that stupid black nail polish and give him a good haircut. How do they manage to get laid?? Did all teenage girls turn lesbian and just didn't figure it out until the clothes come off? "Well! What do we have here? I guess I might as well give it a go while we're here..."

Fat Haters

You know the type, the women who insist that you are "sickly thin" when you yourself is perfectly content with your size. The ones who are aghast with surprise that you don't stuff your face with an entire pack of oreos within an hour. The ones who are hippo sized and is trying to goad you into horizontal expansion to a) convince themselves that they are not cows b) to drag you down to their level. The worse part is that somehow they end up making you feel guilty for not drowning yourself in calorie despair. No, I don't need that last brownie a la mode to make myself feel better. Thanks bitch haters, I enjoy my size xs and the fact that my muffin top stays inside my jeans.

Boozy Tuesday Work Lunches

I equate boozy work lunches to something like a back-handed compliment to your minions. You award them a job well done by plying them with alcohol and then sit back and enjoy watching them nurse their noontime hangovers while struggling to do all the stuff that needed to be done for the day because you spent the last 3 hours beer funneling them. God it must feel nice to be masters of the universe.

Half Assed Glass Shower Pane Retard Death Traps

You'd think that in a city where the sun never shines and it rains more than the Bellagio fountains that London has figured out that things almost never dry here. So why, oh why, do we have these half assed shower glass pane retard death traps? You know what I'm talking about, those shower panes that supposedly replaced disposable curtains.

Where before, you get complete coverage, free to act out your favorite scene in Billy Elliot with your razor as your microphone and your rubber ducky as your audience. And now, this panel extends to about 1/3 of the tub, you're self conscious that everytime you lift your arms you've created another wading pool on your obviously moldy carpet. In any other country, if you make a mess of your shower floor, it dries when you come home from work EIGHT HOURS LATER. But no, here, in this lovely London flat right in the heart of yuppie Islington, that puddle is still there, just waiting for you to step in it and slip right into that frosted glass death trap. I can just imagine that stupid pane saying this as my forehead makes the impact: "Ah Hah! You uncouth Americans! Should have just learned to shower like a civilised Brit!"

By the way, in this case, "civilised" really means resigning myself to the north end corner of the tub in a half crouch/half kneel position. And forget about soaping yourself, aren't you still finding pink shower gel foam on the other side of the toilet??

For a country where you can sit and watch cricket for 8 hours a sitting, you 'can't be bothered' to buy a fucking shower curtain rod?? Really?!?