Here’s a travel note for Peter King: I only slept about 30 minutes on the redeye I took back from the West Coast on Tuesday night. I was in bad shape the next morning, but not as bad as the man in front of me WHO DIED DURING THE FLIGHT.

It wasn’t a complete shock: he was an old, old man, a veteran judging by his camouflage Army cap — old enough certainly to have served in Korea, probably in World War II. He was in the front row on the aisle, having arrived there only with the assistance of crutches and the flight attendants. Swollen ankles bulged from his sneakers, suggesting that blood circulation was not his heart’s strong point.

At one point during the flight he was snoring like a 19th century logging factory, and the flight attendant had to wake him up out of deference to the other passengers. When she went to wake him again as we began our final descent, she was less successful. “Well, he’s breathing,” said a second flight attendant summoned to the scene, but I doubted her diagnosis. From my vantage point in the second row, I could see the flight attendants exchange worried glances and hushed communiques over the phone to the cockpit.

When we landed, a pair of NYPD officers were the first responders. They carried the old man off the plane, and that was the last I saw of him. I suppose it’s possible that first aid and medical attention revived him, and now he’s back to his previous state of poor health, but I doubt it. I think I flew on a plane with a dead man.

Now, somber situations like this are not my forte. I only became a blogger when it became clear — to both me and all prospective employers — that my complete inability to feign seriousness made me a poor fit for the normal working world. And the normal world in general. With that in mind, here are some handy ways to break the ice when people are all upset that someone has died on your cross-country flight:

• ”Don’t bother my friend. He’s dead tired.”

• (to flight attendant) “Suddenly, getting hit in the head with falling luggage doesn’t seem so bad, eh?”

• “Ugh, I hate redeyes. I feel like death warmed over.”

• “Thank God no one realized he was dead until the final descent. That would have been crazy inconvenient if we’d had to do an emergency landing in Pittsburgh or Buffalo.”

• “Well, at least we won’t have to wait for our luggage at the carousel.”

• “People dying on airplanes is a lot more exciting in the movies.”

• “Too bad it’s not ten years ago. We could have blamed the airline food.”

• “This is why I never go anywhere with my grandparents.”

• “Oh, come on! He had friends who died at D-Day. He got, like, 65 extra years of life.”

(original photograph by twoeightnine)

Many of you sent nice emails/tweets/comments to veterans and fallen servicemen for Memorial Day, and I’d like to take a moment to thank those who shared their appreciation. Personally, Memorial Day is always a more subdued affair than Veterans Day for me: it belongs less to the lucky survivors than to the men and women who have died in the line of duty. It’s a chance for me to remember young Marine lieutenants like John Wilt, Brian McPhillips, and Andy Stern, each of whom was smarter and more proficient than I was. Chance, circumstance, and the unforgiving nature of hot steel are the only reasons they’re memories while I get to be some jackass typing on a laptop.

One such person to remember is John Glaser, a Kansas firefighter and former Marine who recently died in a burning building, leaving behind a wife and two children. You can read more about his story here, and Joe Posnanski also wrote about Glaser. If you want to donate to the John Glaser Memorial Fund, you can do so at any Bank of America branch, or mail it to the following address:

Bank of America
175 Clairborne Road
Olathe, KS, 66062

One last note while I’m rambling on about the military (hey, it’s the off-season — it’s this or nothing): Dan Lamothe, who used to write the sports blog Red Sox Monster, is presently in Afghanistan writing a blog called Battle Rattle as an embedded journalist for the Marine Times. He is probably the only blogger on the planet of whom I’m jealous. Just last week, he took a picture of a Marine gunnery sergeant who has a tattoo of Sarah Palin on his ass:

That is a sweet gig you’ve got, Dan. And probably safer than interacting with Red Sox fans.

Nike Golf yesterday debuted this unsettling and cynically timed ad featuring a recording of the late Earl Woods speaking a few vaguely relevant questions about learning from mistakes while Tiger is filmed in black and white blinking. As with anything this ripe for parody, the wags set to work applying every wry twist and vulgar reference at their disposal. We applaud their efforts, however irrelevant to football they may be.

Jimmy Kimmel was the first to strike. You know Bill Simmons isn’t still writing for this show because Mr. Miyagi wasn’t worked in to their spoof.

Hey, wouldn’t it be great if Tiger talked to Tiger while the listening Tiger blinked? Blinked hugely and quickly?

And lookie here! Even I made one! I am a very topical maker of jokes!

Oh man! Slate totally did one of those Coors Light press conference wiseacre things! They went there, Home School! It might be a tired concept, but not as tired as you think!

UPDATE: I’ll be hosting the liveblog at Edge, the pop culture site I also write for, so as to minimize the amount of unrelated film dorkery in this space.

When I was ten years old, I was a member of a swim team at a local country club. This is the sort of thing you do when you are a fairly well-off white child growing up in Minnesota. That country club was the setting of the single weirdest incident of my lifetime. This is what occurred.

Swim practices were twice a week every week during the summer. I’d go to the club’s indoor pool, swim laps for 45 minutes (sucked), and then practice was over. Lots of kids would stay after practice to dick around in the pool. I was one of those kids. The pool had a diving board. A good one. One of those green ones that’s really long and way fucking springy. I am 33 years old, and I could still spend 9 hours of a summer day doing stupid shit off a diving board. It never gets old. If I were rich, I would install an Olympic diving platform in my palacio. But I digress.

Near the shallow end of the pool was the pool area’s reception desk. There was always a staffer at the desk. The entrance to the boys’ locker room was located right behind the desk. You walked in, and on the right was an open shower area. Gang showers. Past the showers were the lockers.

Decorum for washing up after being in the pool was as follows: You get out of the pool, go to the desk, call your folks to pick you up, go to the shower with your Speedo still on (tight!), rinse off, take off your suit, rinse the suit, hang the suit on the showerhead, then shower as normal. This is what all the kids did, and I did as well.

One day, I stayed late after practice to dick around on the diving board. The pool cleared out to the point where I was the only one left. Cue after school special theme music. I get out of the pool, call my folks, and hop in the shower. I’m in the shower area taking a shower, with my bathing suit still on, when the following occurs.

A man, in his 20’s or 30’s, walks up to the entrance of the gang shower area. He’s Hispanic. He’s wearing chinos and a horizontal striped shirt that is far too tight for his somewhat chubby body. He has a wispy mustache. The only thing missing from his molester getup are thick glasses. He looks at me and smiles. Then, he steps into the gang shower area, still fully clothed, and mutters something unintelligible in Spanish. Then, he begins advancing toward me.

Now, this was the 1980’s. At this time, I have the good fortune of growing up in the Golden Era of Child Molestation Education. At virtually every grade level, my classmates and I are told time and again by teachers and school administrators to avoid strangers, even if they have candy. We are told not to get in cars with strangers. We are told not to talk to strangers on the phone. And we are told to NEVER open the door for a stranger. Ever. HE MIGHT BREAK IN AND MOLEST THE SHIT OUT OF YOU! I have also seen the Gordon Jump episode of “Diff’rent Strokes.” It affects me deeply.

We are constantly being reminded that there are strangers out there looking for schoolboy asstang, and that we must always stay vigilant. They WILL try and molest you. It gets to the point where, warned so many times, I begin wondering just where the fuck all these terrible child molesters are. I never saw one. Maybe I was too fat. I was probably too fat. Regardless, I am taught to always keep my head on a swivel for pederasts, and so I do.

Now, back to the shower. The man is coming at me. Since I have been given warning after warning about potential child molesters, a blaring siren immediately goes off in my head. WISPY MUSTACHE! FULLY CLOTHED IN A BOYS SHOWERING AREA! CREEPY SMILE! HOLY SHIT!

The man comes closer. He stretches out his hand and reaches for me. More specifically, he reaches for my ass. I remember this vividly because, until that point, no one had EVER tried to touch my ass. I would sit up at night and PRAY from some girl to come by one day and touch my ass, then make her way round the bend for stickwork. Just my luck it’s Jesus Quintana now trying to do so.

My brain springs into action. “This is it! This is what you’ve been trained for! YOU’VE MET A MOLESTER!” I am both terrified of this AND genuinely excited that I am face to face with a real criminal. It’s like finally getting to the final bossman in any Mega Man game of your choice. Again, we kids of the 1980’s are trained for this shit. Live combat has finally arrived.

Immediately, I run around the man and back into the general pool area. The man makes no real effort to accost me. I have never been fast or strong, so accosting me would have been simple. But Creepy McWispyStache never bothers to try. Perhaps I wasn’t worth the effort. Whatever. I run to the reception and begin shouting to the receptionist.

“A MAN IN THERE TRIED TO MOLEST ME!”

“What?!”

“THERE WAS A CREEPY GUY IN THERE AND HE TRIED TO TOUCH MY ASS!”

The receptionist calls the police. She goes into the locker room to look for the man. He’s gone. The police arrive quickly and ask me what happened.

Up to this point, I have had only one encounter with the police, and that was when my mom left me in the car one day in Chicago while she ran in to a store to do an errand. Sitting in the passenger seat, I grabbed the automatic shift of her car, jammed it into neutral (hey, why not?), and the car gently rolled into a parked police cruiser. The cop got out, got me out of the car, and let me sit in his car while waiting to give my mom shit for leaving me to my own devices (in my mom’s defense, this was the 80’s). When I did that, I knew I was in big fucking trouble, but also totally jazzed to be in the center of a police investigation. And I got to sit in his car. It was AWESOME.

Now, once more, I have the same rush of excitement in the wake of this. HOLY SHIT! COPS ARE HERE! AND I’M A WITNESS AND EVERYTHING! They take me with them as they search the club for the man. We get to a kitchen area and the man is working in the back. I see him. He does not see me. I scream out THERE HE IS! I point. Within nanoseconds, the cops have the guy up against the wall and are cuffing him behind the back. Do not fuck with Minnesota cops. I am quickly escorted out and allowed to go home with my folks, who are clearly shaken by the whole thing.

Some time later, the policeman who arrested the guy comes by our house and asks me to give a recorded statement. He turns on the Dictophone and I tell the story. Again, I am excited by all this attention. I’m an odd kid.

COP: And where did he try to touch you?

ME: Can I say ass?

COP: You can say anything you want.

ME: On my ass. My left ass.

The cop thanks me for the statement, tells me the suspect faces 15 years in jail, and that’s that. I never hear from the police or courts about the matter again. Did the guy go to jail? Was he an illegal alien? Was he deported? I have no clue. But what I DO decide is that there is no fucking way I’m showering in that fucking locker room alone ever again. Whenever practice ends after that, I leap out of the fucking pool and make sure the gang shower is as crowded with fellow ten-year-olds as humanly possible. And if everyone else decides to get out, then I get the fuck out of there too. Years later, I encountered gang showers again at prep school and other places. From time to time, I would be alone in those showers, seemingly over my phobia, when I’d think to myself, “Wait a second, creepy mustache fucker could walk in here and FINISH THE JOB.” Then I’d hurry the fuck out. Didn’t happen every time, but sometimes.

I rarely think about this story anymore, because nothing really happened. The guy never got to me, and certainly I wasn’t subjected to the kind of trauma that someone like Laveraneus Coles and others – real and true victims of terrible abuse – were. It was just this bizarre fucking incident that occasionally pops up in my head. Oh yeah, THAT happened. That was creepy.

I wonder, on very rare occasions, where that dude is. If he went to jail for a long time, did he swear revenge on me, do shitloads of pull-ups, and tattoo the scales of justice on his back? Will I be mowing the lawn one day when that prick will pop out of the bushes, say something unintelligible in Spanish, and try and touch my ass again? I was at the wedding of a very old friend last month. His mom was there. She hadn’t seen me in twenty years. She looked at me and said, “Drew, you look EXACTLY the same.” And I do. I look like a little fat kid, weight loss or not. And I act the exact same as well. So Mr. Molester could probably recognize me if he saw me. Will he have his vengeance? Is he waiting outside? Right now? As we speak? Will I be pussytubed?

Nahhhhhhhhhhhh.

Of all the celebrities who didn’t get the chance to blow me off in Miami, Andy Rooney is the one I’m saddest of all that I missed. Actually, I totally forgot that he goes to the Super Bowl every year. But luckily, before dotage claimed what’s left of his memory of the event, he was able to provide us with the gripping tale of his Super Bowl experience during last night’s 60 Minutes. Basically, he did what Conan fake-did to NBC, only with more entertaining senility. To recap:

This man is a cultural treasureforce. Yes, that’s the portmanteau I have coined in his honor. Andy Rooney: Treasureforce.

DIRECTOR: Alright, everyone are we ready? Great shoot so far, everyone! People are really going to love this new Value Meal commercial. Alright ready lights… ready camera…and–

[cell phone rings]

Ahh, dammit! I have to get this. Everybody take five, alright? [crew disperses]

FRENCH FRIES: [To Hamburger] So what are you doing this weekend?

HAMBURGER: Oh, I don’t know, man. Maybe just relax, spend some time with my kids. You know, no big thing. What about you?

FRENCH FRIES: Actually,one of the guys on the crew gave me tickets to the Chargers game this Sunday. It’s a bit of a drive to get down there, but it should be a great game. They’re playing the Raiders. It’s gonna be awesome.

HAMBURGER: Nah, man I can’t do that.

FRENCH FRIES: What do you mean? Sure you can! You can do it.

HAMBURGER: Oh, great. Yeah. That’s it. Just walk right up to the front gate of the stadium like some ordinary asshole du jour, eh? Just mosey on up with my ticket in tow, huh? Those sons of bitches wouldn’t let me in on their best day. You know why?

FRENCH FRIES: Why?

HAMBURGER: Because I’m a fucking hamburger, asshole! You don’t know what it’s like for our kind! You’re just a goddamn fry! Fries are always made fresh! Fries are always piping hot! Not us, you skinny French fuck. My brothers will wait in that warmer for DAYS before somebody deems them worthy. DAYS, you frivolous peasant! DAYS!

FRENCH FRIES: Frivolous peasant?

HAMBURGER: Oh, you think you know what’s best for everyone? You think you know what’s best for the Coca-Cola? What do you know about Coca-Cola, you baguette-bangin’ bitch!

COKE: Hey, leave me out of this.

HAMBURGER: You think you know what’s best for sweet tea? Sweet tea is sold by the GALLON, Pierre! WHO THE FUCK EVER SOLD YOU BY THE GALLON?

FRENCH FRIES: Look, I’m sorry, man. I…I didn’t–

HAMBURGER: Didn’t what? Didn’t get your bicycle-riding ass out of the Louvre long enough to realize THE PLIGHT OF THE ALL-BEEF PATTY? You’ll never understand what it’s like! You know why?

FRENCH FRIES: Because you’re a–

HAMBURGER: BECAUSE I’M A FUCKING HAMBURGER! STUFF THAT IN YOUR CREPE, GARCON!

FRENCH FRIES: get it, alright. You’re making French cracks because I’m a–

HAMBURGER: YOU DON’T GET A GOT-DAMN THING! YOUR TIGHT GOLDEN BROWN ASS SITS IN THAT FRYER ALL DAY! YOU DON’T GET SHIT! AIN’T NOBODY SQUIRTIN’ KETCHUP ON YO’ ASS. ANY NOBODY HITTIN’ YOUR CHAMPS-ELYSSES ASS WITH THAT SPECIAL SAUCE, ! You get a little of that bitch-ass salt and that’s it! You don’t know what it’s like on the GRILL, nigga! You know why?

FRENCH FRIES: …

HAMBURGER: I said YOU KNOW WHY, CHARLES DE GUALLE?

FRENCH FRIES: …I give up.

HAMBURGER: BECAUSE I’M A FUCKING hamburger! And yo’ crunchy ass better recognize!

FRENCH FRIES: Sure, bro. Whatever.

DIRECTOR: [comes back in] Alright, everyone! Let’s knock this last shot out and we can all go home!

FRENCH FRIES: Uh…I’m gonna need a minute [walks off]

GAFFER ON CREW: Hey, where are the fries going?

DIRECTOR: [to Hamburger] Jeez, he’s a bit of a prima donna, isn’t he?

HAMBURGER: TELL ME THE FUCK ABOUT IT!

We’re in the slowest stretch of the offseason now: the dreaded post-draft period. There’s no football on, and there won’t be football on for quite some time. You’re angry. You’re hateful. We understand. At KSK, we’re hateful too. Of all things, at all times. Hating is what we do best. So, in that spirit, we present you with the weekly off-topic/offseason feature…

THIS WEEK IN FUCK YOU.

Every week or so, we’ll be taking our lack-of-football-related depression out on any number of deserving targets: people, things, abstract ideas, group dinners, etc. It’s just the kind of cathartic invective we excel at. This week, PEOPLE WHO OWN LABRADOODLES.

I’m a dog lover.  You know those people who will break their stride while walking through the city or suddenly disappear from a conversation to bend down and pet a dog?  And immediately start a one-way conversation with the dog, even if they don’t know the owner?  That’s me.  “Hey pups!  Hey buddy!  What’s going on?  What’s your name?  Oh, you’re a sweetheart!  YES YOU ARE.  We’re best friends now!  Yeah we are.  Yeah, give me some kisses!”  That shit makes my week.  I have never in my life been as excited to meet another human being as I was with that hypothetical dog just now.

That’s one of the things I love about living in the Park Slope neighborhood of Brooklyn: there are dogs freakin’ everywhere.  Hell, in the mornings you’re even allowed to let dogs run off-leash around Prospect Park.  No fences or anything, just a whole bunch of dogs running free.  It fuckin’ OWNS.

Alas, the first rule of city life is this: if there’s something cool or convenient about living in an urban neighborhood, yuppie cocknozzles will try to ruin it.  Specifically, in this case, labradoodle owners.  What’s a labradoodle, you ask?  It’s the en vogue dog breed at the moment, much like puggles were two or three years ago.  You get a labradoodle when you cross a Labrador retriever and poodle, then take the stupidest possible combination of those breeds’ names.  Yuppies like them because they’re hypoallergenic, they don’t shed, and they cost  a thousand dollars when you can easily rescue a dog for free at any shelter.

Now, labradoodles aren’t bad dogs; it’s the owners who are fuckfaces.  There’s a car in my neighborhood with a bumper sticker that reads — I swear to Christ this is real — “My labradoodle is smarter than your honor student.”  Contemplate for a moment the layers of fucktardery it takes for someone to be such a dipshit.  They feel the need to make  a point with a bumper sticker, check.  They want to brag publicly about what kind of dog they own, check.  They think a dog-related riff on the “My kid can beat up your honor student” bumper sticker is funny, check.  They are unaware of how badly I want to crush their face with a crowbar, check.

There is no car wreck fiery enough for the person who drives that vehicle.

This gut full of hatred I have didn’t overflow, however, until I realized the extent of “doodle” owners’ highfalutin shitfuckery.  For a couple weeks I’d noticed that all the labradoodles — about seven or eight of them — would play together while their owners hung out in a circle and talked about whatever labradoodle owners talk about.  Molesting children and underpaying immigrant workers, I assume.  They fostered an air of elitism — AT A FUCKING DOG PARK — that discouraged others from joining their precious hybrid dogs.  But who cares, because fuck them, right?  I was cool with them doing what they do, right up until the point where they got all the labradoodles together FOR A GROUP PICTURE.

I don’t know if you’ve ever owned a dog, but a typical thing that EVERYONE ON THE PLANET KNOWS is that dogs don’t understand the concept of standing still for photography.  And they sure as shit don’t understand group photos.  And so you’ve got the yuppie dipshit wives trying to line up their dogs, handing out treats to try to get the dogs to stay, but then they have to get in the picture to hand the dogs the treats, and the handing out of treats has led the racially inferior dogs like my own to come and sit near their precious fucking designer dogs and ruin their Aryan canine master race group picture.  Some bitch pushes my dog (this sweet-natured rebel) out of the way.  “Sorry, we’re trying to get a group picture.”

“Yeah, that seems like a terrific idea” is what I say, leashing my dog.  But what I mean is  FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING DOG-RACIST CUNT.

You fucking labradoodle owners have ZERO idea of what matters in the world.  They’re just DOGS.  You take them outside, you play with them, and they give you unconditional love that makes your short time on this planet a little richer.  Your dog is not a fucking status symbol, it’s not a ticket into some gay little club, and it sure as fuck doesn’t excuse a low-level brand of Jim Crow laws in a public park.  GET FUCKED AND DIE FUCKED.

KOBE BRYANT: Oh my Lord, this is the greatest feeling ever! Come here kids, give daddy a championship hug! I’ve won another world championship! By only beating teams in North America! This is the best! AND I FINALLY DID IT WITHOUT SHAQ! Woohoo! MVP!

PAU GASOL: Hey, Kobe. Congrats on the MVP, man.

KOBE BRYANT: Oh, Hey, big man! I finally did it without Shaq! This finally cements my legacy as A GUY THAT CAN PUT A TEAM ON HIS BACK! And carry them to the promised land!

PAU GASOL: [in Italian] Sure thing, guy, whatever!

ANDREW BYNUM: Great series, Kobe. Good job.

KOBE BRYANT: Hey, Andrew Bynum! I finally won it without Shaq! WHO SAYS I NEED A 7-FOOTER ON MY TEAM TO WIN A CHAMPIONSHIP?!

ANDREW BYNUM: Yeah, Pau and I were just talking about that. You had a great series. For a guy that was fifth on the team in field goal percentage and led all of us in turnovers. Nice work.

KOBE BRYANT: Thanks…man! Hey Derek Fisher! Why you dressed already?

DEREK FISHER: Hey, Kobe. There just aren’t many pictures of me online.

KOBE BRYANT: Derek, I did it, man! How ’bout a totally fake high five while the cameras are still on!

DEREK FISHER: I guess. [they high-five]

KOBE BRYANT: Derek, look at this. I DID IT! I AM THE GREATEST PLAYER IN THE WORLD, WEST OF THE MISSISSIPPI! Remember those two clutch shots I hit to win Game 4 for us?

DEREK FISHER: That was me!

KOBE BRYANT: …Oh. Hey, Coach! Coach! Whose the man now?

PHIL JACKSON: [distracted] Yeah, great work, Scottie. I’m proud of you.

KOBE BRYANT: Aw, come on, man! Can’t y’all see that IT WAS MY LEADERSHIP THAT GOT US HERE?! MY TEAMSMANSHIP?! DON’T HATE! EVERYONE ELSE KNOWS THAT I’M THE REASON WE WON! WE DIDN’T NEED SHAQ TO DO IT ONCE WE STOLE GASOL FROM THE GRIZZLIES IN THE ILLEGAL TRADE IN THE HISTORY OF SPORTS! DON’T HATE! DON’T HATE!

…why don’t you turn that damn camera off so I can get rid of these kids already?

We’re in the slowest stretch of the offseason now: the dreaded post-draft period. There’s no football on, and there won’t be football on for quite some time. You’re angry. You’re hateful. We understand. At KSK, we’re hateful too. Of all things, at all times. Hating is what we do best. So, in that spirit, I’d like to present you with our new off-topic offseason feature…

Every week or so, we’ll be taking our lack-of-football-related depression out on any number of deserving targets: people, things, abstract ideas, group dinners, etc. It’s just the kind of cathartic invective we excel at. This week, PEOPLE WHO WANT TIPS ON WHAT TO WATCH OR READ.

With most TV shows wrapping up their seasons and trips to the beach not far in the offing, before long you’re going to be inundated with people asking for recommendations for their “next show to get into” or “what books I should take to the beach.” Tell these people to get fucked with a fire poker.

I hate recommending entertainment media. Any of it. Books, movies, TV shows, video games, porn, what have you. Not so much that I don’t like imposing my tastes on others, but I hate people who are standing aimless at entertainment crossroads, beseeching you to be to shepherd them to their next obsession. I don’t like having to answer for my tastes, because I’m usually passionate about whatever it is I’m into. Also because almost certainly the asshole who is too lazy to find things to pursue on their own is going to come back to you and tell you how lousy/overrated whatever it was you told them to check out was. And then ensues a vociferous argument about the merits of said work, which will strike you as them calling you dumb or obtuse or susceptible to hype for liking said work. And then you want to chop them with a a blood-encrusted halberd.

CONTEXT: At the end of high school I worked for the worst named video store in world.

Every day, inevitably, some fuckwit would come up and ask me “what’s good,” which I suppose on its face is not an unreasonable thing for a customer at a video store to do. HOWEVAH it’s such a deceptively complex question so as to be pointless. What’s good to me, the pretentious young video store clerk, almost certainly isn’t good to you, person dense enough to ask complete strangers for suggestions.

Now, I assume the worst of people. Always. But I betrayed this instinct at first, initially making plugs for things that I actually liked. And for this transgression, I was met with bitching. “A’yo, son, that LE SAMOURAI shit was WACK!” There were even those who went as far as to demand free rentals from the manager because they didn’t like what I had suggested they watch. And thus did I align my sympathies with the misanthropes of the world.

But then it felt even worse when I went the other way, and suggested shit that I loathed and they would return with kind words, which only validated deep-seated hatred for all creatures.

LISTEN: I don’t know what you like. I don’t know what you’re in the mood to see. I DON’T KNOW SHIT ABOUT YOU AND JUST WANT MY SHIFT TO GET OVER SO I CAN GO HOME GET HIGH AND FINISH PLAYING SHENMUE BECAUSE I’M ALMOST DONE WITH IT!

I venture to say that it’s just as bad with friends, because it opens fissures of disagreement, exposes fundamental weaknesses in the tenuous bond you share. “How could I associate with anyone who thought up in the Old Hotel was pedestrian? I can’t.”

These grounds are too precarious to tread. It’s better you send them to Uncrate and wish them luck. AND IF THEY TELL YOU THAT SITE IS OVERRATED SHOOT THEM WHERE THEY STAND.