Assholes.

There are a couple of things that I must confess that I really hate.
Not all of the above is true because, in fact, there are a lot of things I hate.  Bad gym etiquette.  Substandard conversationalists.  That bastard that routinely leaves the coffee pot dry.  Bill O'Reilly.  People that use more than one paper towel to dry their hands.  All the Kardashians (I don't even know if I spelled that right and I don't care).  Creationists.
Surprisingly, though, I do like moon cake.  I mean: who saw that coming?  Chinese people don't even like these things but I'm like "oh, more cake made with red bean paste, please!".
But we're not here to talk about strange lunar deserts made out of red bean paste (or in some instances lotus seed paste). 
No.
Instead I have a couple of other things to bitch about, which is pretty surprising given than I'm an abundantly optimistic and even-keeled person that seldom complains and has really nice hair.
Not all of the above is true.  Again.
I don't like when good television shows turn to shit in the third or fourth season.  Seinfeld never did.  So why did Lost?  Lost got stupid.  Lost became that extra two or three miles I run sometimes even though I've lost interest but still feel the need to waste some time and expend some energy.  Castle got complacent.  Fuck already.  Just... have ballistic, animalistic sex for 42 minutes.  Make it pay per view. I would pay $10 for that.  Subtle glances and coy double entendres don't last this long in real life.
This brings me to Rescue Me.  I will admit that I love, and have always loved, Denis Leary.  He's my hero.  If I were a guy, I would want to be him.  That hair?  That potty mouth?  That lanky body?  Yes.  Actually, I do have all of those qualities so I guess I'll just take up smoking and wear more t-shirts. 
Anyways, he is the co-producer on Rescue Me.  Rescue Me which, in season three, has Tommy Gavin's cop brother being buried and his sister Maggie getting married within five minutes of that.  In the cemetery.  Come on.
And Sheila?  With her incessant shrieking and her buying a house in the hopes that Tommy will retire and come and live with her?  And then drugging him and accidentally setting the house on fire and then shrieking some more, running out to her car, shrieking in her car, and then moaning and shrieking when she finally decides to call 911?  Dennis Leary weighs what, 160lbs?  Your house is on fire.  Pull him out of the burning structure.
Hey.  My fault for watching television.  I gotta find my Sudoku book again.
Okay, and the other thing that I hate?  Fruit flies.
It's November: where did the little fuckers come from and how did they end up in my wine which I was so happy to enjoy after a day of accomplished envelope stuffing?
Yeah.  Envelope stuffing.  I think I had a course on "Paper Cut Mitigation" sandwiched somewhere between "Statistics" and "Cost Accounting" back in the day (and not that these were necessarily my halcyon days either, but at least at that point in time I was trying to wrap my head around the Poisson Distribution versus, say, appropriately flagging a piece of outgoing mail as having a US address).
Anyways.  The point of this post is that if you want a really great example of weak inductive reasoning, crack open "The Ego Boom: Why the World Really Does Revolve Around You".
I gotta go: there are two more of the little assholes in my glass of wine.