I’m no fan of douchebag drivers who park diagonally in multiple spaces because their car is so special that preserving its pristine condition supercedes parking lot courtesy, though I guess I understand the desire to keep a nice car nice, but what was this guy thinking?

I hope he was just drunk and failed to park straight while trying, because there’s nothing about the condition of this heap that needs preserving. Who would notice another door ding?

Made me want to sail my empty shopping cart across the lot into his fender.

Oh, and though you probably already guessed, it was at Wal-Mart.

Based on my own life experience, I’m well aware that my surname is a compound word.  And when used by the creative minds of Elementary and Junior High age kids (I’m looking at you, Scotty Feddon and Ron Hall), can be a treasure trove of hilariously filthy and inappropriate ribbing.  No, really, I know this for a fact.

But apparently, Scotty & Ron aren’t the only ones who get the joke.  This morning, when posting a review to Amazon.com for a recently purchased 1TB external hard drive, I got the following message from the “Real Name” creation app on the site:

In grade school, I had a whole arsenal of comebacks for this sort of interpretation of my last name, but rather than fire off implications about Amazon’s momma, maybe I’ll start with a polite email suggesting a filter which checks to see if the “inappropriate language” used in signatures matches the customer’s actual name.

Not only would I appreciate it, but so will Billy Glass, Dave Ballstein, and Mitch W. Shitakke.

For several months now, I’ve noticed these candy jars at the checkout of a Mexican restaurant near my office.

Not that I’m in the market for cheap candy from a filthy plastic tub, but if I were, I think I’d enjoy the debate that would ensue when I tried to get eight pieces for a penny.

This is a pretty common typo, I know, and one that is so prevalent that most either don’t realize it’s an error, or don’t care to argue the point (unless you’re the Verizon Math guy), but I still enjoy thinking about it.

It’s fun to imagine a scenario where I take the whole jug and drop a quarter on the counter, get chased out to my car by the cashier-ita shouting, “El ladrón! El ladrón!”  And then, flash forward in my extreme scenario to where we’re standing there outside the restaurant with a sheriff’s deputy, and I’m explaining why .25¢ is not the same as 25¢, and how my quarter was enough to pay for 200 pieces of candy at a rate of .25¢, and then I’m vindicated by math and released by the authorities, candy tub under my arm and a smugly nerdy look on my mug.

I hope it never happens, but wouldn’t it be cool?