We don’t do the important work, god’s work really, of Society Camp for the acclaim and the many, many dollars it
brings costs us, we do it to make you all less insufferable. But goddamn it’s hard to watch this Humans of New York guy swimming in praise and more importantly, pools and pools of money, for doing nothing more than being really intrusive into people’s private lives and exhibiting basic photography skills. So we decided here at Society Camp that it was time to go on a road trip to serve as inspiration to see what awful things awful people around the awful globe are carrying out on a daily basis. In our first installment of our Awful Humans of… series, we will be talking about our important research in Dublin, where we witnessed some truly discouraging things about the state of humanity, and also, some pretty great things too, but let’s not dwell on the positives.
We saw a lot of annoying and shitty things on our trip, but some of the standouts include:
Sidewalk wafflers: Now you know we take sidewalks etiquette very fucking seriously here at Society Camp, and no one needs to brush up on basic walking skills more than the fucking Irish. Holy living shit, they were driving me fucking mad with their sidewalk waffling. First off, Dublin is an old city, so the sidewalks are barely wide enough for two people from the 1800s, which is like not even ¾ of a real, current human. Irish adults were pretty much the size of modern-day children back then, but their lungs were filled with chimney soot, their livers with whiskey, and their hearts with rage, which is kinda adorable to imagine these rough kid-like adults, full of piss and potatoes, looking to brawl with anyone in a top hat.
Now I should add, I have a very weak grasp of Irish history, as it’s based entirely on Angela’s Ashes, shoddy stereotypes, faint recollections of talking about the potato famine at school, and the worst Scorsese movie ever made, Gangs of New York. Which is to say, I know pretty much everything there is to know about the Irish. Where was I, oh yes, their shitty sidewalking tendencies. The people of Dublin are the slowest walkers I’ve ever seen, and that includes trips to that one mall near our Society Camp grounds where all the old people go for exercise. Not only are they slow walkers, but they just meander from side to side, ensuring there is no easy lane for passing. I imagine that Google Maps has to factor in Irish walking speeds into its walking directions, because a 15 minute walk anywhere else in this soulless world, easily borders on 45 in Dublin. And just try passing them with a friendly “excuse me” and see what happens, most likely a quick kick to the dick while some dude holding a pre-made sandwich asks you “who’s excusing who now, manners wanker”.
Too much love for Christmas: I don’t mean to shit on everyone’s love of the Christmas season, even though it goes on way too long, the music sucks, it wreaks havoc on bank accounts, and the food is all dry and shitty (endless list really), and I really do my best to try and let you plebs have your nearly two-month long Christmas celebration without comment (but oh so much inner judgement). But the Irish take this love of the season much too fucking far. Every goddamned person is walking around in a Santa hat, which must fuck with kids so bad, “Daddy, I didn’t know Santa was some foul-mouthed 20 year old sweat pant wearing redhead with a love of cigarettes ”. And every fucking person is wearing ugly Christmas sweaters, and not just on their way to a party, but like Sunday morning at a grocery store. There are elaborate Santa robots in malls climbing shit and more stringed lights than street ones. It’s just a mess of holiday joy and makes me scared to imagine what that place must become on March 17.
Tracky bottoms. Full disclosure, this one is not really awful and actually makes me really jealous that I’m not a Dubliner, but every man, aged 12 to about 55, wears nothing but tracky bottoms (what we refer to as sweat or track pants). I don’t just mean guys coming back from the gym, I’m talking about every single man in the city. If you see a guy wearing jeans, he is most likely their President on his way to a formal function. And it’s not like these pants are cheap, some Nike hi-tec fleece track pants will set you back well over a bill. It’s just so brazen and an affront to fashion decency, but I’m kinda okay with that and wish I could just show up to work looking like a footballer.
Holy shit, they like to drink. I thought Brits reigned supreme when it came to public inebriation, but they look downright Mormon next to a Dubliner out on the town. Our official Society Camp visit started on a Sunday night and ended during the week, so I thought it would be fairly tame, but hell no, a Monday night in Temple Bar is pretty much the height of Mardi Gras in N’orleans. Some of these people are just the walking embodiment of shitcannery. Every third person you see is speaking in what I could only describe as tongues, like some bullshit healer, and walking with about as much balance as Trump’s mental state. It’s almost an artform to watch a Dubliner walk down the street with about 18 shots of Jamesons running through their system, defying gravity and decency at every step. Anyway, I didn’t really have any problem with this, other than they kept me up because these fuckers are out on the streets singing and breaking shit literally all fucking night/early morning.
In Ireland, when one gets ossified (local slang for shitfaced) they talk about waking up with “the fear”, which is pretty much just the unknown that comes from long periods of being blackout drunk. These fuckers are essentially waking up bruised and tattered, tummies full of rancid curry, and curious to know if they inseminated some public garbage bin they thought was a human. And again, we’re just talking about a Tuesday night out with the lads. The big silver lining to their debauchery is I feel that even though my liver is 40 percent IPAs, grease fryer fat and whatever else has built up in it over the years, that I’m still pretty much a young Jack LaLanne compared to Dubliners who live in constant fear of the fear.
Grocery stores don’t have food, just pre-made sandwiches. This is something we noticed in London as well (post to follow), that most grocery stores are not actually grocery stores, just various iterations of Pret a Manger/Tesco Express. Just walls of pre-made sandwiches, crisps, and the occasional token packet of carrot sticks. I’m just assuming that the apartments are so old that they only have wood-fired stoves and old school iceboxes. I’m not saying everyone has to be some chef savant, sous-viding some bullshit onto a plate every night that looks too pretty to eat (I refuse to use the term food porn, which really should only be used when discussing what Jason Biggs did to that poor american apple pie), but goddamn, mankind wasn’t meant to survive on a steady stream of ploughman sandwiches and nothing else.
Sentence: Anyone caught being an annoying Dubliner will spend a half day at Society Camp.
Reform Punishment: We mostly just want to let them sober up and experience what warm, home-made food tastes like.