Magazines and websites have to stop using that one skinny photo of Oprah Winfrey, taken back in 1994 when she ran that marathon. Who are you kidding? She’s pushing 250 these days, and the only place she’s running is to the fridge to get more marinara for her mozzarella sticks.

My hairdresser has to shut the hell up while cutting my hair. I don’t want to hear about “the hysterical time” you got drunk and trimmed your boyfriend’s hairy ballsack with a pair of your cuticle cutters. What is this, the “before” portion of Tabatha’s Salon Takeover? I’m here for a cut and color – not to film an episode of Jerry Springer. And while I’m at it, you can grab my chin and say “a little to the left” as much as you want. My head only turns so far. I’m not an owl. Thanks.

Everyone has to boycott the new Karate Kid movie with Jaden Smith. First, you can’t have a Karate Kid without Pat Morita. Second, Jaden Smith is ten. Think about it. Is a crane kick to the nose really the best answer when someone steals your legos?

Don’t even attempt to recreate that Alton Brown recipe you saw on Good Eats. Take my word for it – it’s an impossible task. Last week, I went into the kitchen to make his poundcake. I opened my oven an hour later and found something that looked like Betty White’s hair on season 2 of the Golden Girls.

No more Guitar Hero “Risky Business” parody commercials, with D-list celebrities playing air guitar to “Old Time Rock ‘N Roll” in their underwear. It’s not working. Seeing David Cook in a pair of tightie whitie’s isn’t making me want to play Guitar Hero… it’s making me want to buy him a penis pump.

People shouldn’t feel pressured to give their mailmen gifts around the holidays. Come on, mailmen, why so needy? You’re already getting a great salary and federal benefits just for dropping off junk mail. But now you need a re-gifted $6 bottle of wine to know I care? I don’t think so. If you want additional perks as a reward for doing your job, try your luck at Chippendales.

Restaurant servers, WASH YOUR HANDS and eat a mint after your cigarette breaks. Look, I’m all for you escaping out back to grab a smoke and gossip with your friends about how the Mexican dishwasher just tried to feel you up. But you smell like the Marlboro Man’s asshole, and that’s where I draw the line.

American Express has to stop being so fucking nosy about my credit. I don’t have your credit card. I don’t want your credit card. So kindly stop checking my credit every 5 minutes like I’m Ed McMahon. At the very least, think of the environment. My last credit report print-out was longer than Tommy Lee’s dick.

NO MORE POPCORN BALLS! They’re stale, they’re hard, and I don’t want to eat something that looks like it was just hit into the bleachers by Jose Canseco.

Don’t bother watching horror movies on network TV. They cut out all the good parts. There’s no blood, no gore, and no one dies. If I wanted to watch crazed psychopaths just walking around swinging Santoku knives, I’d tune into the Food Network.

Stop putting the same Halloween decorations up, in the exact same locations, year after year! I stopped being stared of the fake coffin sitting on your front porch in 1992.

Fat trick or treaters are only allowed one piece of candy. Look, kid, I’m doing you a favor. Your stomach is hanging out over your Spider Man costume, and you’re 4 Kit-Kats away from needing a boomerang to put on your Spidey-Senses belt. That web shit you spit out of your wrists has a limit to the weight it can support, and you’re just about there.

Minute Rice needs to change its name to something more honest… like “THIS SHIT NEVER COOKS” rice. I tried to cook some last night, but after 60 minutes, it was still harder than Ron Jeremy. Something’s gotta give. If I wanted to stand around for 3 hours waiting to eat dinner, I’d go to Olive Garden.

Get Paris Hilton off my television. I don’t want to see her on MTV, pretending to search for a new best friend. Can’t somebody just slip her Kurt Loder’s number so we can all be done with it?

If you just said “WHO?” more times than the Tootsie Roll Pop owl, you just proved my point.

Stop showing men in hair restoration commercials flying around on jetskis and splashing around in swimming pools, like they’re extras in some rejected Kathy Lee Carnival cruise ship ad. What’s the point? To prove your plugs won’t fall out? I’ll take your word for it. I don’t need to see Hurricane Katrina raining down on your head as proof.

You’re not allowed to work at a car dealership unless you’re knowledgeable about the car you’re trying to sell me. If you think “torque” is something you twirl your spaghetti with, you need to quit your job immediately and get a job somewhere more suited to your talents – like governor of Alaska.

No more “how to survive in the wilderness” television shows. Every time I turn around, there’s some asshole on my TV pretending to be roughing it in a rain storm, showing me how to angle eucalyptus leaves to catch rainfall. Listen dipshit, I already learned that stuff from Sly Stallone in Rambo. Teach me something useful, like how to get the hell out of the woods without 12 cameramen following me and a compass shoved up my ass.

When you buy something from me on eBay, you have to pay for it ALL AT ONCE. I just sold a shirt to a guy who wanted to pay me $10 this week and $10 next week. Like I have time for that bullshit? It’s eBay… not Layaway-bay.