That Trendy Costume Guy

Ya wanna know how I got this Redsox Calendar?

And it is time for another installment of arguments against Darwinism, otherwise called That Guy. This week's that guy is one I am sure we are all familiar with and have had to suffer through over this wonderful weekend. I am talking about that trendy costume guy. From Neo to Jack Sparrow to the Joker, we can't escape that hoard of movie watching fanboys who want to be just like their big screen idols, to an infinitely shittier degree.

First and foremost that guy, you are not the Joker. Despite being a great role, Heath Ledger doomed us all by playing a psychopath dressed in clown makeup with a very easily copied voice. Therefore we already have droves of idiots who want to be this caked on sorry excuse of a costume. At least when Pirates of the Carribean was out, Jack Sparrow had a voice that was somewhat challenging to copy and thus no one walked around like they were in a drunken stupor, at least purposefully.

Halloween is a time for creativity. At the very least, be someone boring, something that's been done, something that takes more than "Hmm, that looks cool and everyone knows who that is and has a backstory, I'll be that." The worst part is though, despite being a costume of sheer laziness and uncreativity, that guy thinks he is being completely original and awesome. Maybe you and the forty seven other Jokers parading around the street. Great minds do think alike. Well, so do lemmings. Why don't you all go run off a cliff on a pile of syringes filled with AIDS. Then tell me where you got those scars and that abnormally low T-cell count.
That guy is incredibly frustrating because he is not a guy in costume, he is the character who shows up to your party, except he drinks your booze and tries to recite every single line from the movie in every possible context.

The Joker was particularly bad this Halloween. Everywhere I looked it looked like some sort of emo scenester clown college convention. All of them trying to out-Joker the other. Here's a tip that guy, if you want to be the most authentic, best joker of them all; take 4 bottles of sleeping pills and call me in the morning. HOOOHOOOHAHAHAHEEHEEHEEHEE

That Music Store Exhibitionist Guy

Ah yes, my triumphant return with a real entry on time. But wait, you didn't come here for my personal goings-on did you? No. In fact, none of you probably even care about who this is, so back to our irregularly scheduled hate speak. Today I am going to show you that guy who I'm sure any of you who have gone in a music store to buy an instrument, peruse accessories or stare at expensive things you will never own no matter how many extra shifts you pick up at your menial dead-end job frequent; that music store exhibitionist guy.

Who is this guy? Simple. That music store exhibitionist guy is the person who spends hours at the store playing his fingers off on a guitar, showing off on bass or pretending to be a rock star surrounded by his unpurchased amps, for sale signs and other consumers. That guy plays his heart out, and to his merit, tends to actually have some talent. Be it an impressive solo on a guitar, great rhythmic improvisation on bass or impressive beats on drums, that guy piques the attention of all who walk by and sometimes even amasses a small audience to listen to his 'impromptu' performance. But dear reader, do not fall for his ploy, for once you give him the attention that he craves, you are caught in his web.

That guy never plays for himself. No. He plays for others. Every spare moment he has is spent prostrating himself within this wall of instruments, hooked up to an amp, day in day out, hoping to grab a passerbys attention. Unlike a street performer, he does not do it for money, that guy does it for the sheer attention of it. Who knew talent could be offset by such a level of douche.

Along with his strutting around like a rooster, he talks like he is an expert in this field. Despite having technical and musical prowess, he comes off like a cocky Mr. Miyagi. "No no no, you have to play it like this, using an augmented 7th variation on a 3-6-5 progression." Oh, I'm sorry that guy, I can't hear you over the price tag on your guitar and the buckets of shit coming out of your mouth. Just because you have talent in a music store does not give you free reign over the idiot who can't tell the difference between a humbucker and pickguard. Why don't you actually buy your own instrument and practice not being a douche, since apparently you took all your time practicing on not being a douche to play guitar.

Burn in hell that guy. I hope it rains in the store so you get electrocuted and your family has to pay for all the equipment your scorching body ruined and didn't pay for so your grandmother has to be taken off life support and she spends eternity kicking your ass.

That Staring Guy

Deep in the brush of the Urban Jungle lies the illusive, yet altogether infuriating creature, that staring guy. Who is that guy you may ask? Who is this creature to earn my venomous post this week? Well, he is a very clever trickster indeed and when you notice him, you hope some horrible tragic malady to befall you and the 50 other people around you just to make sure this miserable creature is bathed in cleansing agony and death.

That staring guy is the one who out of the corner of your eye stares at you. Perhaps you are reading a paper, zoning out and watching the sidewalk or wall, walking somewhere, some means of activity in which your attention is not to your surroundings and then out of the corner of your eye, peripheral vision or such, you catch it. Two beady eyes staring holes through you. Of course you want to see the creature attached to these ocular spheres of annoyance, however as you look up and your eyes meet for a few slivers of a second, he darts his eyes away like a frightened squirrel in the middle of a group of children.

No matter how many times you look up, to confirm him staring, he quickly looks away. You look up, he looks to the side. You look to the side, he looks away. It's like some idiotic site gag on a bad cartoon show. Anytime you catch him in the act, he merely averts his gaze and acts like he is innocent. This game of idiotic cat and mouse happens until you reach where you're going or end up leaving.

Listen that guy, I am not some six year old at an ice cream truck, so stop looking at me as such. It's just eerie. You are the reason why there are blind people in the world, because you abuse your right to vision. If I had my way I would pour bleach into your contact solution and pour enough salt in your eyes to make beef jerky. At which point, I hope flies will lay eggs in your eyes so maggots will writhe from your useless and perpetually irritating ocular cavities. Fuck you that guy, fuck you.

That Perpetual Bar Guy

We here at that guy are filled with hate for our fellow guys, however we do not always feel seething torturous hate. Sometimes we see that guy and are filled with sadness and pity, and want to decapitate him not out of spite but out of mercy. This is the tale of one of someone who should be euthanized for his own good. This is the tale, of that perpetual bar guy.

That perpetual bar guy is a fixture at every bar you go to, always by himself, always looking morose into his drink or staring blankly at some distant wall, the television or something with hollow, blank eyes. He rhtymically drinks from his glass, ordering round after round, never talking to anyone or even acknowledging the presence of anyone around him. The only time that he ever stops this lovely dance of drink and stare is when he decides to go to the bathroom to relieve himself. Upon returning, he mechanically returns to his stool and continues his bicep workout with an ever decreasing glass giving off more ennui than a goth club at night during an eclipse after their parents told them that it was time to go home.

That guy is a miserable alcoholic bastard, but even more so than most miserable alcoholic bastards. Most self pitying alcoholics tend to buy the cheapest of the cheap booze and drink it in the dank solitude of their hovels. Their misery is contained therein, insulating the rest of the populous from their radiation of misery. The only person ever to be exposed to this lethal dose of depression tends to be the delivery boy who comes by and provides sustenance for this sad creature. But as a whole, they are sequestered away from the rest of us.

That guy however breaks free from his fetters and radiates buzzkill radiation all around him. You feel pity towards him. Suddenly, all eyes furtively go to his direction. There are hushed tones and whispers speculating to his origin, as to why he is there, drinking alone by himself, unmoving. Suddenly, this drinking sedentary piece of shit becomes the star of the bar. Everyone watches him, fascinated by his alcoholic, liver damaging ritual, to the point where others start to join in. We have been infected with the sadness, morose quality of his being. We are now all that guy, to a small degree. And yet, still unmoving, still unfazed, still oblivious, continues to drink hypnotically. He is sadder as he craves us, craves to share his misery in his quiet yet overwhelming way until we are all downing our drinks out of utility rather than socialization.

Therefore that guy must be stopped. He must be fed a mixture of arcenic, Drano, bleach, gasoline, anthrax and Moxy cola. He must be put out of his misery because if it does not stop, it will be like that person you slept with and never told anyone. It will spread, and soon, everyone will have it.

That indecisive fast food guy

Ah yes, another guy who I'm sure all of us are familiar with. I'm sure in our moments of weakness, hunger, self loathing, boredom or other motivation to dine at one of the many wonderful fast food restaurants. They're not hard to find, they dot our landscape like monoliths of diabetes and obesity, promising supreme value over caloric intake. In these troubling times of economic instability, it is nice to know that we can all retreat into our fast food hovel of choice and satiate that masochistic desire to swallow a deep fried something, covered in other greasy somethings all topped off with a sauce biologically designed to clog our arteries. But we all have our favorite sandwiches be it the triple bypass burger, the McFried special or a Jr. Lardo soft serve shake. Either way, we all know what we want. Even further still, we know what all of the items are on that colorful, greasy menu. They're all variations on the same basic thing, simple yes? That is why that guy's existence boggles my mind.

That guy is the one who stands in line in front of you. He does not let us experienced artery cloggers walk past him, he holds his position firmly, staring up at the vertical menu, studying it with all the intricacies of a lost and priceless manuscript. He stands there, unmoving, mesmerized by the combos, enticed by the wonderful looking cyclopean mounds of meat and rendered animal fats, immobile. No one shall pass him, no one must receive their ambrosia before he sups on the delicious flavors served on his wax paper in its magnificent paper bag presentation.

Listen that guy, you have clearly been in this place before. You and your several chins look like a row of giant slugs hanging upside down from a big sack of fat. And judging by his slight gravitational pull, that guy is most certainly familiar if not eerily intimate with the foods at this wonderful establishment. Yet despite his corpulence and being the embodiment of every single "Yo mamma so fat..." joke, he still can't make up his mind.

The time it should take one to decide as to what unhealthy dessicated disgusting dirty delicacies should be half a second. By the time you walk in those doors and that horrid scent of fried souls hits you, you should already know what you want (and already salivating in line). You don't saunter in to a fast food place and read the menu like A Tale of Two Cities. There are no best or worst of times. There is a fucking burger and fries. Pick one and let the rest of us get on with our descent into diabetic obesity. This is not a fancy restaurant, there is no maitre'd, no table cloths, hell there isn't a bathroom half the time. The menu is not hard illegible and you don't even have to be literate. Just point to your mountain of calories and get on with it.

That guy slows me down and should die a horrible painful death involving the deep fat fryer and his genitals. Every second he takes to choose between the ultra mega deluxe combo platter or the chicken mcdiahrrea is another second that makes me reconsider my actions. He is the person who wants to skydive but is too scared to jump himself. Perhaps next time he should bring with him a starving Ethiopian child so they can order in tandem. Make up your mind that guy, before I supersize the foot that I am going to plant in the fold on your backside that I think is your ass.

That Stationary Escalator Guy

Today's that guy is someone near and dear to my heart. And by that I mean, choking him so I could feel his last breath leave his body as he slowly turns blue still unaware of his idiotic actions. No, this update's that guy is a plague on society, you too may be that guy. Who is it? It's the Stationary Escalator Guy.

I'm sure you've seen this guy around, hell you might even be this guy. They might travel in herds or stalk the streets alone. Either way, they need to be wedged between the wheel and axle of a tractor trailer driving over a highway made of broken glass. On fire. That guy pisses me off for many reasons... and so I'll list them.

First and foremost, that guy never just walks somewhere. He powerwalks. I'm sure you have all noticed this. His pace is just a little faster than his pace should be given his size. So this obviously means he's in a rush somewhere. In some occasions that guy is even running somewhere. However like everyone else of his tribe, as soon as he gets to this magical moving staircase he stops. He plants both feet firmly on the step, sometimes if he feels adventurous, he puts one foot up on the next step or the one after that, perhaps to give the illusion of movement. Hmm, perhaps the people walking by on the stairs are thinking he is an amazing human being for walking so smoothly up those metal stairs with rubber handrails. His rush and speed are gone as he has become a mannequin; immobile and useless. However as soon as he gets to the end of his little stationary thrill ride, he runs off like a man with an imminent bowel explosion looming over him.

Another thing that I notice about that guy is how much of a trance he gets when he steps up to the escalator. As soon as his feet are planted on those winding stairs, he suddenly stops anything and everything he is doing and looks up, mesmerized by the coming horizon of the next level, be it lower or higher to his relative position. However if this person is on the phone, they either talk 90 degrees to their left, their right or if going upstairs, directly into the ass of the person above them. I'm sorry that guy, but if you think an escalator is magical, then I have a magic disease for you called cancer, why don't you get mesmerized by a tumor slowly growing inside you until you die and GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY.

You see, the fact that guy seems to forget with escalators are that they are still fucking stairs. If an escalator breaks, do you try to find another working one? No! You walk right up them, and even slightly stumble awkwardly over those first few midget steps. Despite there usually being a staircase in the middle of escalators, we all go up the escalator regardless. We walk up them, like a normal staircase. Is there something that tells us that if we're making progress, we shouldn't make any MORE progress? Thank you that guy, for striving for mediocrity.

What pisses me off the most about that guy on the escalator however, is how he gets in my way. Listen that guy, you may have hoards of followers and annoying evil creatures that do your bidding, like a lazy unmoving non charismatic cult leader, but I am not one of your kind. If on an escalator, I use them for their purpose. As an intermediary between points A and B. An escalator is not a means of conveyance, it is a moving staircase, but that does NOT excuse you from not moving. Have we as a society progressed to the point where if we are getting too much done, we feel bad? God forbid we make more progress than what the almighty escalator dictates, but it shouldn't have to hamper me! I am not one of your kin, give me the choice! I'm sure you have been an unfortunate victim of their initiation rituals. Normal you, walking up the stairs, going side to side, ignoring that guy, continuing on our path up the stairs. Then it happens, your path to the left is blocked by that guy and the path around him is blocked by his friend/family/fellow cultist that guy 2. Therefore you are trapped, unable to move, blocked by that guy, forced to take part in their ridiculous sedentary lifestyle for those agonizing few seconds. Just when you feel your humanity drain away, you finally reach the end, but not before needing a shower and a genocide on their kind.

The solution to this problem is simple. Next time someone stands in our way at an escalator, let us kick them behind their kneecaps. This will cause them to tumble down the stairs, cutting themselves on the jagged ridges of an escalator as they topple people over and impale more and more of their kin, like bloody lemmings trapped in a cage on a treadmill. And with some luck, some of them will be paralyzed. If you want to get from point A to point B not moving, then so be it. I will make your legs not work so you won't be able to ever again. And then escalators shall be free for us, the ones that WALK on stairs, not stand on them.

That loud annoying cell phone guy

Just in case you guys didn't know, That Guy is an interactive blog. If you have anyone you would like for us to rant about, by all means send it forth. We are a bunch of lazy writers who miss deadlines and we are more than happy to make your grievances our own. That Guy is universal and chances are if he annoys you, he annoys the rest of us.

This week's That Guy is that loud annoying cell phone guy. I'm sure you've seen him around. He is the person that doesn't quite understand how a cell phone works. Oh sure he knows what all the buttons do and texts like a hyper 14 year old talking about boys or pregnancy pacts, but he does not seem to know how to use this piece of mobile technology.

First off, that guy doesn't seem to understand that a cell phone is a phone, not a deaf retarded child. I have seen that guy with bluetooth headsets or a phone shoved up against their face, screaming into the mic. No matter how frantically you scream into the mic, they are not there next to you. What is the point of you yelling at someone. I know you're trying to add emphasis to your conversation, but listen that guy, the only emphasis you're adding is to my thoughts of how big of a douchebag you are. And so far you get a C, which is impressive because it is on a scale from 1-10. He traversered the known numbers and ended up 3 past the end of infinity. I don't care how "Dat bitch was totally suckin [my] dick the other night and how 'tits'" it was. No amount of titosity can merit you screaming into your cell phone like a Howler monkey in heat.

The next thing that bugs the fuck out of me about that guy is the fact that he gestures when he is on the phone. I'm not sure they told you this at the store, but this isn't the Jetsons that guy. We do not have videophones yet. Therefore you pointing to the left and right when giving directions does absolutely nothing. You are not talking to a deaf child next to you, but you can assume they're blind. They flail their arms, point and gesture like a disco dancer doused in gasoline and set on fire. The only thing your arm flails are doing is pissing me and the rest of humanity off.

And then we have these cell braggers. You know the ones. This version of that guy is fairly hard to find, but when you do, watch out. His douche levels are critical. Being around him is a health hazard, it's like being in Chernobyl with no Russians but twice the radiation. That guy uses his phone to brag to no one in particular, to impress the people around him by talking about his newly found accomplishments, money, cars or just how overly awesome he is. Congratulations that guy, you have proved that mid 1990s comedians have said about you. In the mid 1990s, observational humor was at its infancy with jokes such as "Black people walk like this, but white people walk like this deedeedeedeedee." The humor was funny at the time but had no sense of reality. Now in this dark age of comedy, they said people who used cell phones were full of themselves, talking to no one and was using it as a way to differentiate and elevate themselves above the rest of the social strata. Thank you for proving the stereotype that guy. Why don't you go eat some watermelons, be greedy and fly planes into tall buildings. No, in fact why don't you just do the last thing. Except change fly planes into kill, and into tall buildings into yourself. Do it with a potato peeler, and just keep peeling flesh off your forearm until you die. Do us all a favor and do it. Your phone does not make you more or less liked.

We all use cell phones, we all talk to our friends, and yes sometimes we are loud. But that guy takes it to a whole other level. He transcends levels of rage to the point where putting him in a gaint washing machine with half of South Africa and a million razor blades then running him down a cheesegrater slide into a kiddie pool of lemon juice isn't enough. Technology brings us all one step forward, but in the case of that guy, it's one giant leap for pissing me the fuck off.

That lonely socially awkward coworker guy

To those of you who have ever worked at an office, retail or food service establishment, you are most likely familiar with this guy. This creature brings forth feelings of pity rather than hatred. But in a way you feel when a starving, skinny Boston Terrier tries to attack your leg in hopes of getting some sustenance from it. It's annoying and painful, but you can't help feel sorry for this poor misshapen beast.

What is that guy like? That guy is the very quiet person at his desk who doesn't quite know how to talk to people. That guy can never start a conversation but when you have to talk to that guy, either work related or out of sheer soul-crushing mind numbing boredom and need some distraction, he pounces on your company like a mountain lion on a rabbit.

That guy never has anything interesting to say, nor does he go anywhere with the conversation. However every word that comes out of his mouth is spoken with such zeal in hopes to keep you around for a while that it's almost mesmerizing in a way. You don't care about that guy or what he has to say at all, but to see someone so desperate for human companionship that they would stoop to this inhuman level of fake conversation is just mind boggling. It's like watching a car crash in slow motion while you're eyes are locked with the driver. You can see the car crumple like a soda can and see the force travel through his body, snapping his bones yet just can't look away.

That guy also can't take a hint of how disinterested or bored you are. No matter how you stand, look down the hall, hint at going back to your desk or something else to keep you away from this gravitational well of depressing social monstrosity, he continues to ramble on and on. That guy will either talk about a show and at the end of his rant that would put a movie pitch to shame, he'll say something along the lines of "but it's not that good" or "it's just ok". That sure is one hell of a mixed message that guy, for verbally lashing me in place as you ranted about a magnet engine you saw at youtube and how hydrogen is now obsolete, that it all ends up being not all that interesting.

I believe that guy feeds off of attention and body warmth. My theory is that guy's family hates him. Therefore he needs to suck the attention from someone, as a surrogate mother of sorts. Listen that guy, just because I work with you, does not mean I am going to allow you to suckle on my attention giving teat. Leave me alone.

Yet in all of my dealings and interactions with that guy, I can't quite bring myself to say anything to him. He really is just like a lost, hungry, sad little puppy who is talking to you out of sheer, desperate, crippling desperation. This will be his last chance to see a human close up before he retreats to his studio apartment, sits on the couch and waits another boring, slow, miserable night for Death to come by so he finally has a house guest. I can't hurt him... until I think of the best way to do it. Then I'll have me a laugh. I hate you that guy, shut up about your godamn magnets.

That obnoxious overenthusiastic movie guy

I like to go to the movies. And I'm sure as the previews end you get your own theater's annoying way of telling you "Silence is Golden" or shut off your cell phone, or in a polite and nice way to shut the fuck up. I'm sure this all slightly annoys you because in these ads the treble is just a bit high and the pitch of the cell phone playing or child crying is just at the right frequency to turn on the rage centers of your brain and makes you want to make something suffer. Therefore that guy annoys me greatly.

In case you are not familiar with that guy, he is the one that decides every tense, funny, scary, suspenseful, romantic, buildup; climaxing moment is the height of cinematic achievement and behaves in turn. It's like the writers of the movie have a gun pulled to his head and unless he shows as much possible emotion for every single plot point, joke etc, they will shoot him and disembowel his children with melonballers.

If you are lucky that guy is only going to be obnoxious when the entire theater laughs or gasps. However that guy will continue to react at every small minor moment or continue to discuss and rave about the moment that has passed several minutes ago. Perhaps that guy is a mental invalid who continually finds things as interesting and novel as when they are first perceived. Similar to watching Roseanne for the first time. It only mildly sucks the first time you see it, but with each subsequent time it’s on TV you dive for the remote and change the channel faster than a Kenyan Marathon runner being chased by a hungry lion. What exactly is the point to that guy’s reaction? Was it really that funny that he is still laughing at some guy being kicked in the balls for 5 minutes? News flash that guy, it is all movie magic. I have seen my friends and real people get kicked in the balls, it is funny for 15, maybe 30 seconds tops. A minute (and that’s the upper limit) if you really despise the person. Anything more and you’re bordering on finding shiny objects amusing.

Another thing I’ve noticed about that guy is that he seems to add little quips and jokes or worse still, one liners to the movie. I have analyzed this behavior and realize it benefits no one except that guy. It is his way of saying “Hey, I am so clever I have made an astute observation to make your enjoyment of the movie better.” No you haven’t that guy, no you haven’t. I know for a fact no one else in the theater is enjoying his golden nuggets of comedic or observational genius. The rest of us are in a movie theater to watch a movie. Even the people/person who accompanies that guy look annoyed and scowls as they try to block out his voice from their ears. Unlike us, that guy’s cohorts have learned to put up a vocal filter so as to tune him out. They can just act like he’s not there, like parents do when a child cries in a restaurant. The rest of us want to introduce this child’s mind to the front and back of its skull several dozen times in a minute, while the parents calmly look at each other and talk, ignoring this vile spawn which screamed its way out of its mothers now useless orifice.

When the movie starts to darken and the end credits start to roll, he stands up and gives a standing ovation in a loud and obnoxious manner. Now some of you may do this, but what bugs me about that guy is that he doesn’t just do it at opening week; he doesn’t just do it at a premiere. He does it all the time. It could be him with 3 of his acquaintances (I don’t like humanizing that guy by saying it has friends) and he’ll still be up there, clapping, sometimes hollering, like a hungry seal trying to get a fish. The writers, producers or anyone in the movie isn’t there to appreciate you’re clapping you waste of resources, stop clapping.

However, despite his obvious love and enthusiasm for the movie, he has to be the first one out of the theater. As soon as the lights even start to get brighter, he jumps up from his seat and runs for the exit, shoving other people over in a mad dash towards freedom. He runs out of the theater like a bat out of hell, and not unlike the Meatloaf CDs, annoying as all fucking hell.

So in summation, that guy ruins my movie experience. I don’t expect a quiet audience; I don’t expect you to be calm. You’re out with your friends, it’s a movie, it's funny. You can laugh, you can talk with your friends and yes, sometimes it’s even acceptable to clap. But when you do these things in excess, you become that guy, and trust me; you don’t want to be that guy.

Introductions

P.O.- Hello there, I am P.O. I am a 22 year old college graduate living in Boston, MA. I am a rider of the T, an avid movie-goer as well as frequenting several bars and restaurants around the cities ranging from hole-in-the-wall dives to the extravagant. I work full time at one of the many colleges in Boston and spend my free time trying to escape That Guy.

I go by OD. I'm 23 years old, also living in Boston. I'm a metalhead and an aspiring writer, but in the meantime I'm content to drink frequently and contribute nothing to society.