Congratulations. You’ve decided you’re ready to be a homeowner. Now comes the hard part: finding a home. Sure, there are thousands of homes out there that appeal to your tastes. Unfortunately, you need to be a fucking multimillionaire to afford any of them. Which, of course, means, you’ve got to settle. Settle for some cramped little condo in a huge complex with amenities that you’ll probably never use. Tennis courts? Don’t care. A pool? No thanks. A gym? Try again. I’d gladly trade all of that bullshit for some extra square feet and a larger bathroom.

And so the search continues. Either the building looks too old or the hallway feels too stuffy. You’re too close to the airport or a school’s across the street. Cars parked on the neighbor’s lawn. A liquor store on the corner. You’re about ready to pack it in and just look for a cheaper apartment. But everyone tells you not to give up. They say, “Keep looking. You’ll eventually find what you’re looking for.”

And they’re right. But when you do locate that perfect place, your ideal abode, that one address with the hardwood floors and the high ceilings, the large kitchen and the washer/dryer area, you’ll turn around and find yourself in a bidding war with three dual-income families and their relentless Realtors. The Home Hunt sucks.

Nothing makes me feel more pathetic than having my dad and stepmother attempt to set me up with a friend of the family. By “friend of the family,” I’m of course referring to a waitress who works at a bar they go to. “Just take her out. Have some lunch. What’s the harm?” Look, this is the way it’s supposed to work: I meet a nice girl. We have a good time. We go out again. We seem to be compatible. We have sex. She’s impressed with my sexual prowess. We decide to be an official couple. I introduce her to my sister and brother in-law. And, finally, I introduce her to my father and stepmother. That’s the official timeline. You fuck around with it, and you’re just asking for trouble. In other words: Stay the fuck out of my social life! Matchmaking Parents suck.

Hello! What the hell are you thinking? This isn’t a fucking race track. It’s a goddamn residential street! Slow it down, buddy and keep your vehicle on the right side of road. Ah, fuck it. Go ahead. Enjoy your inevitable head-on collision. And have fun picking your teeth out of the steering wheel. Corner Cutters suck.

I saw this guy the other day who was walking like he had some kind of physical disability. I started to feel sorry for him. Until I noticed his pants. The inseam was so low, it looked like he was wearing hand-me-ups from his eight-year-old brother. Come to think of it, I bet the only reason he was walking was because he couldn’t lift his leg high enough to step onto the bus.

Of course, there are fashion trends that make perfect sense. For instance, a lot of young women are adopting this low-rise-pants-with-the-G-string-sticking-out look. This sends a very clear message to the men walking behind them: “Hygiene is important to me.” In other words, by wearing this “butt floss,” they’re guaranteeing a sparkling clean ass (Removes 30% more feces than wiping alone!). And who doesn’t appreciate an immaculate rear? Uh huh. I rest my case. Senseless Fashion Trends suck.

Why is that every miracle product on TV can only be acquired with four easy payments? “Just four easy payments of $19.95!” Okay, the answer is obvious. The majority of Americans are morons. They see “$19.95,” and all they think is, ” Wow, that’s only twenty bucks!” That is, if they get that far. Adding that extra five cents to the price can be rather confusing. Let alone, multiplying the original figure by the number of payments to reach the actual retail price. It’s not just infomercials that are guilty of this. QVC offers something called “flex pay.” Basically, it’s a way for people who’ve already maxed out their five credit cards to “afford” such a lavish product. And then there’s the whole “absolutely free” gift you get with every purchase. They apparently just throw this other product in out of the goodness of their hearts, not even factoring it into the final price. Right. How absolutely stupid do they think we are? Very stupid. Four Easy Payments suck.

Last Sunday, I went to Santa Monica to meet some friends for brunch. What I failed to consider before leaving the house was that we might be seated outside. Sure enough, a table for eight was waiting for us on the patio as soon as we arrived. Even worse, it was situated so that only half of the table was actually in the shade. So, being the gentleman that I am, I took a seat in the shady part, and sat and watched the women across from me squint in the sunlight.

The brunch was going well. Everyone was having a great conversation, and I was sitting there quietly listening to them. Then I started to notice something: The shadows were shifting, and the sun was making its way slowly towards me. I leaned back as far as I could without drawing attention to me. But it was no use. Before I knew it, I was getting an involuntary tan.

Now, those of you who’ve met me know that I have a rather profound forehead. Not Cro-Magnon big, mind you. Just larger than average. Alright, let’s put it this way: If you were traveling with the kids from from my eyebrows to my hairline, they’d whine, “Are we there yet?” about five times before you reached your destination.

In any case, that enormous forehead of mine began to perspire. Then it started to sizzle. Then it began to bake. I could no longer hear any of the conversation. I was in panic mode. What could I do? Everybody was still eating. I couldn’t just get up and run away. I had no choice. So I sat there and endured the heat, knowing full well that in less than eight hours, I would be the owner of a very red head. Forgetting My Hat sucks.

There it is: the most beautiful piece of grilled salmon you’ve ever laid your eyes upon. Not too pink. Not too dark. Just perfect. You glide your fork into the succulent flesh, and that’s when you notice it: that hideous layer a gray underneath. It’s not quite skin. It’s not quite meat. And it clings to the fish like rubber cement. In a matter of seconds, your appetite has been annihilated. The Gray Part Of The Salmon sucks.

It never fails. When you’re in a hurry, and you can’t afford any delays, you’re bound to find yourself behind…the Gardener Truck. You know the one I’m talking about. It’s always some old, rusty Ford pickup, or maybe a Datsun with all this dingy looking equipment in the back that doesn’t seem to have anything holding it down. Which might explain why these trucks always seem to be driving at half the speed limit. If the max is 40 MPH, they’ll drag along at 20 MPH. In a 15-MPH school zone, they’ll coast at an amazing 7.5 MPH.

Another reason they might be driving so slow is that they’re vehicle is way over the load limit. Not because of all that equipment in the back. It’s the five men shoved into the main cab. They’re so crammed in there, they have to delegate driving tasks. One’s in charge of the clutch and brake, one mans the gas pedal, one handles the stick shift, and one is in charge of looking for hot mommas to make kissy noises at.

You know what the problem is? Gardening services are just too damn cheap. Ten, twenty bucks a week? That’s not very much, even if you’ve got ten or more homes to do in a day. Maybe if these gardeners would start charging more for the work they do, they could afford a vehicle made in this century and possibly some bungie cords to tie everything down. But until that day comes, the Gardener Truck sucks.

Last night, I called up a friend of mine to see how things were going. Turns out, he was right in the middle of watching Bugsy on the Bravo network. It’s that 1991 movie about the life of Ben Siegal, the mobster who was pretty much responsible for making Las Vegas what it is today. In any case, I flipped over to watch it. And all I can say is, what a disappointment. This overdubbing bullshit they do to make a film “family friendly” should be outlawed. I’ll admit, replacing the word “fuck” with “freak” was amusing for a while. But that kind of takes away from the whole mood of the film. Last time I checked, Bugsy was not a comedy. Now, I understand that certain words shouldn’t be heard by smaller ears. But if that’s the case, then don’t show the fucking film. Stick to the squeaky-clean flicks like Herbie The Love Bug and Bed Knobs And Broomsticks. Come to think of it, Disney’s ABC probably owns all the rights to those. Mother freakers. Edited For Television sucks.

Has anyone noticed how hard it is to find a great T-shirt these days? You know, something that makes a statement, but doesn’t look like a child drew it. Where the type isn’t too large, or too small. Where the image sits nicely in the middle and doesn’t cover your entire chest. Some T-shirts manage to pass the first few test, but they’re only available in two colors, ghastly orange and florescent green. Either that, or they’re made of some kind of material that disintegrates the moment it gets slightly moist. I once spent an entire afternoon searching the Web for a cool T-shirt. I wasn’t very successful. T-Shirt Designs suck.