Anne Hathaway

So Target can be an interesting place. While not as colorful as Walmart at any hour of the day, it holds a few gems that any experienced people-watcher would love to see.
One of those unexpected gems would be our lovely Anne Hathaway.
Everyone seems to love her. She's goddamned everywhere and it seems that most studios are now legally required to send her their scripts regardless of whether they want her for a roll or not.
I'm not here to complain about how Hollywood seems to latch onto the 'next big thing' and saturate the big screen with them so much that we eventually end up hating them, no matter how talented they are/could have been.
I'm here to bitch about Anne Hathaway and her obnoxious inability to comprehend spatial awareness.

"WTF AM I DOING?"

For those of you who know me, I hate it when people are oblivious to their surroundings, and as a result oftentimes completely ignore the fact that they ever possess peripheral vision. My main complaint is when someone is in a store of any kind that requires the use of shopping carts and they plant their cart in the middle of the aisle and then browse at their leisure. Unless you make some kind of noise, clear your throat, bump something, etc, nothing will get their attention. The store is theirs. The aisle is their kingdom. Screw you, peasant, for even considering shopping in their realm.

Long story short: Anne Hathaway was in Target and her cart was literally sideways in the aisle. SIDEWAYS. It was if she Tokyo drifted into the aisle and come to a screeching stop right before she destroyed the hand mixers. Staring at price tags, mumbling to herself, my presence was not an issue and I was less important than acting lessons. That last comment was mean, but I was angry.

I now administer a 'break' whenever entering an aisle in a store, regardless if there is someone else there or not. It's like me marking my territory. And impossible to ignore. I pick up the rear wheels of my cart and let them drop to the floor. Usually aided by the linoleum, they make it sound as if I accidentally scraped my wheels against the floor in a sharp turn.

Anne Hathaway does not react.

I do it again.

Anne Hathaway scratches at her nose and continues mumbling.

I roll my cart right up to her and say 'Excuse me, Anne Hathaway, I'm-' and she cuts me off with a wave of her hand and an instinctual 'Please, not now, I'm just trying to blend in.'
I stare at her for a few seconds. She continues to ignore me. I finally say 'Anne Hathaway, get your damned cart out of the middle of the aisle.' That does the trick. She looks at me, eyes flashing anger, but then quickly replaced with recognition.
'You... It's you. The guy who meets the people.'
'Holy hell, did you hear about me through-'
'Nick Cage.' She cuts me off again. 'He warned me.'
'Well, I don't care about that, I just want you to move your cart, for f-'
'Please. Please don't write anything bad about me.'
'I wasn't planning on it, but this is-'
'Please don't write anything bad about Les Miserables.'
'Anne, I haven't even seen Les Mis-'
'Please! Don't say- wait, what? You haven't seen Les Mis-'
'No!' I finally cut HER off! Yay me! 'I haven't seen it because the trailers made it seem like you whine and cry and cut off your hair and sing and these are all things that no one my age and gender give two shits about.'
'Really?'
'Yea. Really. Get your fucking cart out of the aisle and stop sucking all the time.'

Would you believe it? She started crying, so I left.

Kristen Stewart

Last month I was in Manhattan for no other reason than to see these huge rats I keep hearing about. Apparently they can grow up to like cat or raccoon sizes and I had to see it to believe it. So I'm at E 96th and Fifth wondering where all the tall buildings are when I see Kristen Stewart approaching with a cup of coffee and her ever-present vacant expression as she's probably constantly wondering how she can breath without having to think about it.

Now, I hate this drooling, zombie-like, slack-jawed douche-monster just as much as the next person, but I love my wife and for some reason she likes the Twilight movies. I'm considering a divorce on those grounds alone and I'm pretty sure I'd win.

Why does everyone hate my stupid face so much? (Inhale... exhale...)

Anyways, my wife would love to have her autograph and would probably twist my head off my neck with her glare alone if I came back empty handed. Summoning every last ounce of willpower, I approach Miss Stewart and give a small wave.

"Hey, Kristen Stewart, I was wondering if you could sign this for me. Err, for my wife. Dammit."

She took a moment to realize that I wasn't some screaming fan, crying my mascara into a mess and speaking only in vowels.

"Your wife? Sure, what's her name?" I tell her and begin to thank her and carry on, but she continues with "You don't want one for yourself?" I stare at her for about ten seconds straight, trying my best to keep calm.

"Are... Are you fucking high?" Whoops.

"Yeah, I am." Not too sure how to respond to that, I give her the double-bird, tell her to fuck off and walk to the East Meadow where I watch three cat sized rats chewing on what looked like a human hand.

I hate New York.

Morgan Freeman

I don't really have a lot of clothes that require dry cleaning, but from past mistakes I have learned that I am not smart enough to clean my own sweaters unless I want to go into business selling little argyle sweaters for dogs or Kate Moss.

There is one dry cleaner that I go to and I refuse to go to any others. Not because they are the best or the owners speak the most English, but because I can see them from my front door and I didn't feel like Google-searching dry cleaners reviews. Same reason I pay $2 extra for a 12 pack of shitty light beer than other people: I'm lazy.

I open the door on a lazy Tuesday afternoon and in the corner next to the shreds of decades old Newsweek and Time magazines with a few plastic lawn chairs is Morgan Freeman idly sipping on a coke.

I walk over to make sure I'm not just seeing things, but yes. It's Morgan Freeman. Just hanging out in a dry cleaners.

"Hey, Mr. Freeman. Are you picking up an order?" And in his worldwide recognizable baritone that is both comforting and yet a force to be reckoned with, he answers "No, Nate. I'm just wasting time."

"Wasting time at a dry cleaners? I think your options for time-wasting activities would be a little more exciting, no offense."

"Oh, none taken. I just like going to dry cleaners from time to time and judging people."

"I'm sorry, judging people?"

"Oh you know. A lady comes in. Picks up her clothes. Turns and sees me. As she gets that gleam of recognition in her eye, I look down at her shoes or her dress, or whatever, then back to her eyes and sadly shake my head."

"So the joy of seeing Morgan Freeman in public is quickly replaced by the crushing depression inflicted by him hating on your outfit?"

"Precisely."

"That's odd. Are you drunk?"

"No, why do you ask?"

"No reason. Well, it was nice meeting you, Mr. Freeman. See you around. Maybe."

"Aren't you picking up some dry cleaning?"

"I'm not gonna risk it. My day is going too good."

And just then, Morgan Freeman's eyes quickly glance down to my old pair of Wal-Mart jeans that don't fit right on my pale little chicken legs, and then back up to my eyes. His lips draw to a tight thin line and, almost imperceptibly, his head gives a little shake.

That was a shitty day.

"Maybe shop Target, you cheap sonofabitch."

Harrison Ford

On a beautiful Tuesday morning last summer I was heading into my local coffee shop and there in front of me on his way out was Harrison Ford.

Before I could even think, my hand shot up and in the blink of an eye his hand was up and connected with mine in the perfect high-five.

It sounded like a cannon slapping a face in the middle of a concert hall.

Boom. You're welcome.

Everyone in the coffee shop turned to look in awe. I bit back the tears because it hurt my hand like a sonovabitch.

And without a word, he was gone. 

My coffee tasted like shit, but it was a good day overall.

Tom Hanks

So I'm walking along the sidewalk, staring at my feet like I always do, and I hear someone clear their throat and tap me on the shoulder. I look up to see Tom Hanks.
"Sir, I'm really very, very sorry," He seems sweaty and nervous. "Do you happen to have a spare cigarette? I can pay you for it. I'm sorry to trouble you."

I apologize and tell him how I recently quit smoking and don't have any. He smiles and mumbles something about me being a fucking liar. I had to keep walking or I was going to be late for drinking at the bar.
I had no idea Tom Hanks smoked.