Note: This post has absolutely nothing to do with climbing and is filled with bad words. Lots of f-bombs, but nothing like the 292 in The Big Lebowski. If you’re having a cheery day and want something upbeat, click here instead.

All the dude wanted was his rug back. And all Phil, my brother-in-law, and I want to do is go to the Lebowski Fest, pathetic and sad as that may be, in a couple of weeks, in Los Angeles, the city of angels – though I haven’t found it to be quite that exactly. Phil’s definitely a Little Lebowski Urban Achiever (yes, yes, and proud I am of him). A few years back he and some friends, visiting from Iceland, rented an RV and drove from NYC to a Lebowski Fest in Kentucky. He is a very busy man.

So this morning I called in sick — what day is this? — and went online to buy tickets, run by Ticketmaster, those greedy rotten scumbags. “Convenience Charge”? WTF is that? Says right here that the ticket costs $19.99. But a $9 fee on top of it, and you’ve got the fucking nerve to call it a “Convenience Charge?” So, let me get this right, choada boy, you’re charging me 50% of the ticket price for the great honor, nay, the convenience!, of buying a ticket from you? When some dude from the ‘hood does it outside a stadium, he risks arrest under the charge of ticket scalping. Oh, but that’s different? Like hell it is. Piss off. Assholes. Only, what else am I to do? (Besides, of course, getting a life and not going to Lebowski Fest…)

If you’re going to scalp tickets, just tell me the god-damned price. You aren’t fooling anyone. Don’t do this insulting bullshit where you kick me in the nuts and then ask me to thank you for the convenience.

They’re like the airlines. And don’t even get me started on banks, the finance world swindlers, and “health” insurance companies. These companies all do this bullshit where they go “Well, we wish we didn’t have to charge such fees and institute such policies…” WTF do you mean you don’t have a choice, you douchebag? Oh yes, you have a choice there, slick, you’re just choosing to long-dick us, hoping to make everything look better than it is. You could, for example, choose to not put profiteering above honest presentation, or choose not to pay your CEO a $40 million dollar bonus for his brilliance in contributing to the economic melt-down (btw, what’s up with the slime at big banks and Wall Street saying they have to pay such bonuses to attract the top talent? You mean like the talent that got us into this mess? Are you fucking serious? I think Joe the Plumber could do better).

Here’s a novel concept – just quit the deceptive pricing (“19.99 ticket price” x 2 tickets = $57.98 on my card…I’m no Aristotle, but that doesn’t add up…) and corporate-speak bullshit, along with the add-ons, and grow a pair, tell me up front, like a real human being, how much the god-damned thing costs. If you can’t bear to do it – I know, it’s asking a lot – then just call it “our profiteering fee.” At least I’d have a shred of respect for your being honest, for once. As un-American-businesslike as it seems. Bunch of fucking amateurs.

This aggression will not stand, man. So in the interest of all the commoners out there, I’m left with no choice but to hereby challenge the owner/CEO of Ticketmaster to a duel. Not golf or lawn darts, Sally-boy. (Obviously, I’m not a golfer…) But a boxing match. Him and all 140 pounds of me (actually less right now), in the ring, once my leg is better. Or a free-solo to the death if he prefers. Hell, I’ll do that with one leg. By 3 o’clock. With fucking nail polish. His call. I’m serious. If I win, they start doing honest business and the price is the price. He wins, I return to my cave and shut my cake-hole.

These guys really pissed on my rug. But I’ll go out and achieve, anyway.

Tonight’s marg recipe isn’t a marg. It’s a White Russian. Fuck it dude, let’s go bowling.

—

White Russian (aka “A Caucasian”)

2 parts Vodka

1 part Kahlúa

1 part cream or milk

Get cheap Vodka. I’m not much of a Vodka drinker, but I know it’s a fairly neutral spirit to begin with – unlike tequila – and so I never bought into the Grey Gaylord hipster designer bottle crap to begin with, especially since several blind taste tests found that nobody could tell the difference between that overpriced swill and Smirnoff.

Put the booze in a glass and stir. Add the cream/milk. On ice. Just like the Dude.