Please do not overestimate the title here.  Old people may drive me crazy on occasion, for example, when they insist on going 10 miles under the speed limit in the left hand lane.  But, as a general rule, I have no problem with the elderly.  In fact, I admire with a hint of jealousy the way old men are able to wear dark socks with loafers, shorts, suspenders and a golf shirt without much regard to sensibility, fashionability or laughability.  Hell, I might be even slightly looking forward to the day when it is expected if not socially acceptable for me walk out onto my front porch in my robe in the middle of the afternoon , shaking my fist in the air and yelling “Get off my lawn you damn kids”.

That said, I do take issue with the reckless disregard with which old men walk around naked at the gym.  Perhaps because of its proximity to a hospital, the gym I belong to has a very high percentage of members who are old men — certainly much higher than the population at large much less for the makeup of your typical gym constituency.

I am by no means a prude, but I do take the effort in the locker room to cover up my nether regions with a towel and to try and dress and undress from my undergarments as expeditiously as possible.  Frankly, I view this as simple politeness, and I appreciate that it seems most other guys act accordingly.  That is, at least, until they reach a certain age, apparently sometime in their late 50’s or early 60’s or when the cumulative effects of gravity have become evident on the body’s natural positioning of parts.

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The five of you regular readers know that I previously vented my frustration against the many things that irritate me in life from energy drinks to floor urinals and jam bands to Matthew McConaughey in “The Things I Hate,” “Some More of the Things I Hate” and “Even More of the Things I Hate.”  However, I have realized of late that I often need to point out the world’s many faults in more real time without waiting to amass ten points of contention for a full fledged article.

Therefore, in an effort to provide you sick and twisted individuals who actually peruse the content on our site beyond the daily Hey Man, She’s Hot! picture of the day, I am going to try and give you a more regular look into my mind and the things I hate.  I know, our track record on so-called regular features is sketchy at best (see Jack Daddy’s weekly reminder that the NFL is fixed, Billy’s iPod articles, the Diary of a Mildly Retarded Genius and Suburban Joe’s general participation), but I will give it a shot to make my rants appear at least as often as our Hey Man, You’re a Douche!! series.  Let’s just call it a New Year’s resolution and see how it goes.

The Gatorade Bath makes even Les Miles look more like an idiot.Speaking of New Year’s, like many of you, I have spent much the past week or so meandering my way through some of 32 games in the FBS college bowl schedule (I have even managed to suffer through the entire game on occasion).  Forget arguing about a playoff or even the obviousness of the mediocre play in what is obviously too many bowl games.  What this bowl season has reminded me of is how absolutely sick of the Gatorade Bath I am.  You know, that stupid tradition where players dump the Gatorade on the unsuspecting coach after a victory.  (By the way, does it have to be Gatorade?  I have seen plenty of schools with Powerade on the sidelines?  Is that not allowed?)

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