Recently, I bought a sex toy online. It wasn’t a vibrator or a dildo. It was this weird spreader bondage contraption. Anyway, in case my little Midtown Meltdown indicated otherwise, I’m strong as fuck. I destroyed the bondage toy before my first orgasm. I literally tore the flimsy binding completely apart. The inner-rod detached from the larger outer rod. I snapped the chains in two. This bitch don’t play.
For a variety of reasons, I don’t return items very often even when I’m dissatisfied. However, I’m super pissed, stunned, and profoundly disappointed that this expensive, but crappy accouterment disintegrated at my first healthy tug. Shouldn’t a bondage toy effectively bind? Weak Sauce.
Stymied by my dilemma, I asked around to see what others thought was appropriate in regard to initiating a refund. Let me be crystal clear here: no bodily fluids touched the device. Indeed, I destroyed it before anyone climaxed or even felt much of a tickle. (By the way, even if the thing hadn’t broken, the spreader didn’t actually spread enough, so skip this amateur shit and get your favorite lesbian to build you a sturdy custom device from Home Depot.)
The overwhelming response from a sampling of trusted advisers was to indeed return the overpriced janky novelty to the allegedly reputable website that sold it to me. I packed it up piece by piece, making sure every broken part made it back into the box in some semblance of its original form and shipped it back to the sex toy graveyard. Now let’s see if the site actually refunds the cost of this crap. This junk was over $75 or I probably wouldn’t have bothered at all.
When you bump me say, “excuse me.” When I politely say, “excuse me,” move your ass and let me through.
Don’t come stand directly in front of me, rudely block my view, and then say, “who is this playing?”
Don’t fucking sing along. 
Don’t shout. I could give a fuck about your favorite song in the set. 
Stop weaving through the crowd holding hands in an obnoxious twenty person chain.
Don’t push. I will shank you bitch.
Like many of these Demeter Clarc Manners Moments, some of you will be like, “duh”, and some of you will claim you’ve never heard of the custom before. Let’s talk about tipping housekeeping when you stay at a hotel. We all know that for the most part, cleaning up after others is a boring, thankless, and often disgusting job. Why not express gratitude for your housekeeper’s service with a tip?
So how much is right? Well it is all up to what you feel comfortable with, but I would say certainly no less than $1-2 per day and no more than $5 a day, unless the service is nothing short of spectacular and then the sky is the limit. Frankly, in this age of dismally mediocre service, exemplary conduct should be profusely rewarded. What wouldn’t I tip to avoid an encounter with a dubious pube? 
Don’t even start with the “I don’t have cash” bullshit. It is your OBLIGATION to carry cash while traveling for this very purpose. It is just as important as your ID and suitcase. 
I am not a fan of chitchat. To paraphrase Bethenny Frankel (sorry), I don’t like small talk, I like big talk. Perhaps the most annoying question – more annoying than “where are you from?” or “what do you do?” is – What kind of music do you listen to?
I fucking loathe this question for a myriad of reasons. First, when asked my mind inevitably goes blank, and all I can think of is Bob Marley. This answer is almost as annoying as the question because who the fuck doesn’t like Bob Marley? 
Second, it’s a loaded fucking question. The asker is really leveraging this question to bathe you in judgment. For example, if you say indie, then you become Indie and all that it implies. The most commonly tired-ass trite answer to this question is, “…anything but country.” But for those hedgers, I have one word for you: Jolene. If you go super obscure, you risk looking like a try-hard douche, and if you answer Maroon 5, then you are a douche. 
Third, the people who like to ask this grating question also like to follow it up with a pop-quiz. Oh, you like techno, have you heard the new Trentemøller? (Word of advice, if you must answer this dreadful question don’t ever answer with “techno” even if you fucking love techno). Oh, you like The White Stripes, have you heard Jack White’s new solo album? These questions just become an opportunity for the asker to act like an all-knowing asshole. 
Asking someone’s music taste is a generic inquiry and answering it is rife with potential dignity issues. Nobody really cares what kind of music anybody listens to anyway, so let’s all come up with some new thinly-veiled opportunity for judgment. 
All but the very least civilized among us know that the napkin goes in the lap. That’s table manners 101, right? Well, apparently the advanced napkin etiquette class is less popular. So few understand what should happen with a napkin and what most certainly should not happen with a napkin during the course of a meal. 
Even though most of us get the first part right, I’m always amazed how many napkins on tabletops I see even at high-end establishments. It’s not napkin show and tell. Skills for life. 
First, spare us all the shit sandwich approach to management. The shit sandwich technique consists of generally complimenting someone, then following it up with a sharp criticism, and then closing with another placating missive. Most of us have been on the receiving end of this type of feedback, and I’d wager very few of us can remember the complimentary bread in this shit sandwich. The only thing that sticks with you is the shit, and that is pretty much the taste you have in your mouth every time you deal with that supervisor until the end of days. 
I’ve been attending my fair share of live shows lately, and that means I’ve been annoyed by all the douchebag behavior of the general public. Let’s review the basic commandments of concert-going, shall we?
Thou shalt not wear a band t-shirt to that band’s concert. We already know you are a fan. You bought a ticket. Attendant commandments include: I shall not blast the performing band from my car stereo while waiting in gridlock in the parking lot of the concert venue, and under no circumstances will I emulate the dress of the performers like a pathetic, dorky lemming. All you dress-alike Jack White fans looked like Mennonites. 
I shall respect my fellow concert goers and not place the world’s largest tarp on the ground in general admission in an attempt to save room for my six late-arriving friends. Conversely, thou shalt not dip in the show after the curtain drops and expect to shove thy way to the front. Early birds get the good seats. Late arrivals expect to compromise on proximity to the stage or encounter intense wrath from the long-suffering and dedicated early birds. If your late ass wants a view, spring for the expensive assigned seating. 
I shall further respect my co-fans by actually watching the performance rather than spending the whole show with my back to the stage trying to get high. But on that note…
