Finding Nemo

I don't want to suggest that only co-workers and customers are terrible. There are a number of other everyday individuals that fall snugly into the sewage filled side of the social spectrum. One variety of awesome asshole that haunts nearly every one of us is the creature known as the significant other. No matter how hard you try to avoid conflict or relationship turmoil, partners always find a way to inject a heavy dose of douchiness into what would otherwise be an innocent and joyful experience. 

I remember one time I was at Disneyland with my girlfriend, Amber. She was more than just my girlfriend, though, she was the acting manager at the pizzeria I worked for as well. Contrary to popular belief, this didn't complicate matters. I listened to what she said at work (within reason) and she treated me like a human being. Off the job we could abuse each other as frequently as we wanted to. That was about the only thing that wasn't complicated when it came to Amber. One particularly confounding and complicated situation occurred while we were standing in the line for the submarine ride at the aforementioned "Happiest Place On Earth." The submarine ride at this point was pre-Finding Nemo, so if anyone remembers, the ride consisted of a three hour line that led to a hunk of aluminum that took you a grand total of eleven inches underwater. The climax of the ride consisted of a statue of a diver that was sculpted by a blind day laborer that I'm guessing  ol' Walt picked up at his local Home Depot back in 1955. The only entertaining part of the ride was the guarantee that the captain would be higher than Michael Jackson circa 2009. This down syndrome version of Captain Phillips would be jacked up on either spice or amphetamines and would flicker the lights of the sub on and off like we were hitting some sort of underwater turbulence. Two minutes later, someone on the sub would fart, the hatch would be closed and you'd be forced to spend the better part of the next seven minutes being dutch ovened and questioning why you spent $110 dollars on tickets that could have been spent on a dinner at Ruth's Chris that might have ended with a date doling out a courtesy blowjob. At about this point in the ride, thoughts of opening the hatch and drowning everybody would inevitably cross your mind until you realized that the sub wasn't even submerged and the the chance of survival for everyone on this septic tank smelling sardine can was entirely too high.
Despite these hard hitting realities, I couldn't help but be satisfied with the day. We were at Disneyland after all. I'm convinced that the park emits an odorless gas that's two parts nitrous oxide and one part horse tranquilizer. It's the only reasonable explanation for people enjoying the act of standing in line for seven hours a day with screaming children that should in all reality be tied to the tracks of Thunder Mountain for the good of the general public. In my moment of satisfaction, I was leaning against the railing of the line staring at the family behind me. I wasn't eyeballing anyone. Just merely glancing at the Latino family that had their three year-old child strapped to a leash a few spots down from us. I'm not one of these people that hates on families that use leashes. I admire them. They're acknowledging that their children are misbehaved and they found a solution. Better yet, it's a solution that allows my life to not to be impacted by their ADD riddled child. That's when Amber saw that I was staring, looked to see what I thought was so exciting and then instantly started making hateful comments about abusive parents that shouldn't leash their offspring. I don't care that she decided to voice her own opinion. Everyone's entitled to their own form of judgment. I just wish she had voiced it an octave or thirteen lower, because the thugged out Hispanic homeboy of a father stared directly at me and proceeded to say, "You got a problem, holmes?" I immediately responded with a, "No. Not at all. I didn't say anything." The always opinionated Amber then decided to double down and say, "You shouldn't strap a leash on your child. What is he, a dog?" I just stood there completely flabbergasted by Amber's boldness. The entire time Amber was telling the fully fledged MS-13 member how to properly parent, he never wavered in his eye contact with me. He just focused in on me and said, "What the fuck's your problem, mang?" He then made several hostile gyrations, voiced a multitude of threats and expressed a desire to kick my ass. My consistent response was, "I'm not saying anything. Blame her. I don't care what you do to your kid." Amber continued to voice her displeasure until I eventually I just told Amber to shut the fuck up, in more gentler terms of course. Why do girlfriends do this? There's no need or reason for a beef and yet a girlfriend's sole goal is to stir one up. I think they do it because they know that they'll avoid being assaulted. Their guys will be the one with a Little Mermaid dinglehopper jammed in between their L3 and L4 vertebrae. Also, guys, why do we have to punish our own gender for the shit talking of the more seductive sex? If a bitch is mouthing off, take your aggression out on her. Not the dude that's standing innocently next to her. It's not his fault his worse half has a big mouth.
I know this is where the guy is supposed to step up and defend his lady, but fuck that. If homey would have harassed my girl first, that'd be one thing, but she started an unwarranted fight, she should have to step up and finish it. Innocent bystanders shouldn't be drawn into the equation. 

This is just one of the many reasons girlfriends and boyfriends are all-around awful people. I abso-fucking-lutely guarantee I'll be sharing more like this soon.