The Unnecessary Elevator Passenger

Encounters with the Inconsiderate

(originally Published on Xanga May 08, 2013)

If you have spent any time in the corporate world you know that people here sure do love meetings. I’m not sure if it’s loneliness or laziness or simply an ego-centric desire to have an audience. Either way, I find they are rarely necessary and that emailing a PowerPoint deck to a group of people and asking for their thoughts would generally be a much more efficient way to go about things. Nonetheless they are a fact of life and sooner or later all corporate hacks recognize that, if they are to get anything done during their official working hours, they need to block off a certain amount of time each day, lest they end up with eight to nine straight hours of back-to-back meeting. Taking it a step further, when a meeting shows up on my Outlook calendar, I’ve learned to block off the half hour before and after it. This guarantees that I’ll have at least a half hour free between meetings to make a yellow deposit, grab a cup of coffee (if necessary), and get to my next meeting on time, even if my last meeting runs overtime. Well, usually anyway.It’s Thursday afternoon and I’m sitting in the large conference room on the 7th floor of the West Monroe building for my one o’clock with the Customer Loyalty and Retention group.  As usual they are pitching their latest harebrained idea for keeping our customers from going to the competition. It’s twelve minutes over the allotted hour and there is no sign this shit is gonna come to an end anytime soon. This concerns me greatly as my bladder is a good 20-30% over capacity. I actually haven’t heard a thing they’ve said over the last half hour as I’ve been too busy concentrating on not pissing my pants. Not that I haven’t heard it all before. Invariably these pitches all involve some bullshit VIP program for our “elite” customers which is really nothing more than a clever ploy to get them to opt-in to having us spam their email, send pounds of junkmail to their home, and call them at dinner time to ask if they would take a few moments to participate in a “short survey” (these “short” surveys take an average of twenty three minutes but I guess “few” and “short” are fairly subjective terms). As I look at the clock I’m starting to get really concerned that I won’t be able to make it to the bathroom before my two thirty with Media Relations which is over on the other side of the river at the South Wacker building. I’m not exactly sure what that one is about but I imagine it’s just as unnecessary as this one and probably as predictable. Invariably meetings with Media Relations involve listening to their latest harebrained idea for turning the good work our Community Services division is doing into an opportunity for free advertising, thus negating any shred altruism this firm may exhibit and completely destroying our credibility as a company that “gives back”. But I digress.At 2:19 the meeting finally comes to an end and I head straight for the Men’s Room. Standing in front of the urinal, my bladder seconds from exploding like a water balloon, I reach into my pants and pull my entire package out just as my high pressure stream begins to pour forward.  By the time it occurs to me that my sac is resting very uncomfortably on the teeth of my zipper it’s too late to fix it and all I can do is wait until I’m empty.

At 2:23 I step out of the elevator and into the lobby, run for the door and start heading down West Monroe towards South Franklin. By the time I get to the Monroe Street Bridge I’m sweating which is causing my balls to sting rather badly on account of the shallow punctures in my scrotum  from my zipper teeth. I persevere though and by 2:26 I’m  stepping into the West Wacker building. I manage to get an elevator all to myself. What luck! I hit the button and the elevator launches towards the thirty ninth floor.  It’s 2:27 and I anxiously watch the floor numbers flip away on the display panel – 5, 6, 7, 10, 14, 16. Suddenly the elevator begins to slow then stops on 19. What the fuck?! The door opens and in steps a portly fellow with no jacket, a loose tie, crooked glasses, and a partially untucked shirt. He extends his finger towards the button for his desired floor. Which one does he hit you ask? To what floor could this disheveled, sloppily dressed chap be going, your inquiring mind wants to know? Thirty? Forty? Fifty maybe? Oh hell no! This lazy, inconsiderate, good for nothing piece of dog shit is going to .  .  .  are you ready for this???  He’s going to TWENTY!!! He hits the button for the twentieth floor! Can you believe that? This motherfucker actually has the audacity to tie up an elevator in a fifty one story building full of busy people to go one floor! That’s like twelve steps! This slothful sonovabitch couldn’t walk twelve fucking steps! Un-fucking-believable!!! Now I’ve seen this shit happen before and I’ve always just let it go but not this time! I follow him as he steps out on twenty.

“Um, excuse me,” I say politely and he turns around.

“Yeah?”

“I couldn’t help but notice that you got on at the 19th floor.”

“Okay,” he says, seemingly confused by why I would mention this.

“You do know this the twentieth floor, right?”

“Yeah, I know.  I hit the button for it because that’s where I wanted to go.”

“I see. I see,” I say, “Wait long for the elevator?”.

“No, not too long, couple minutes. Two, maybe three.”

“Two or three minutes? Hmmm. You know there’s a staircase right over there.  I’ve got to think it would have taken you less than three minutes to walk from the 19th to the twentieth floor. Probably less than a minute. Forty, forty-five seconds maybe.”

“Meh, you know. I’d rather just wait for the elevator. I wasn’t in any rush”

“Glad to hear that,” I say, “ I don’t know about you but I really hate rushing.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“But forty five seconds is a lot less than three minutes.”

“I don’t know if I would call it ‘a lot’.”

“Oh no, it is,” I insist, “Four hundred percent less in fact. You would have gotten up here four hundred percent faster by taking the stairs. That’s definitely a lot.”

“Okay,” he says perplexedly.

“And you’ve got to admit that more faster is more better.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“No, trust me,” I say, “Faster is always better.”

“You really should stop thinking that way or you’re gonna get yourself all stressed out. Slow it down. Enjoy the ride. That’s what I say.”

Not quite ready to unleash on him yet, I refrain from addressing his fucking asshole wisdom (as well as from punching him in his stupid mongoloid face) and instead ask, “So what exactly has brought you up here to the twentieth floor?”

“I just came up to see a buddy of mine”

“Oh, came up to see a buddy of yours. I see.”

“Yeah. His name’s Bill Michaels. You’d like him. He’s actually a lot like you, always wanting to get places in a hurry. I always tell him, ‘Bill you got to slow down and enjoy the ride’, kinda like I just told you. I remember this one time  .  .   .”

I cut him off, “I can say with confidence that I would not like your friend Bill Michaels.”

“Of course you would.”

“Nope. I wouldn’t.”

“How do you know? I mean, you’ve never met him. Or maybe you have, you do work here. But then again you would like him if you did. He’s a really great guy. A real give-you-the-shirt-off-his-back type guy. I remember this one time   .  .   .’

I cut him off again, “No, trust me, I wouldn’t like him..”

“I think you would.”

“No, I’m pretty confident that I would hate him. Hate his guts in fact. And I can say that with 100% certainty without even meeting him.”

“Well that’s not nice, judging somebody you’ve never even met.”

“That’s just the kind of person I am. I tells it like it is.”

“Well you can’t really tell it like it is if you don’t actually know how it is ‘cause you’ve never met him.”

“No, I can, believe me. It’s a gift I have. From God.”

“Well I find it hard to believe God would give any gift that has to do with hating people. ‘specially people you’ve never even met. That seems more like a gift from the Devil.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

“Huh?”

“Exactly,” I say, “So, anyway, what exactly did you come up here to see this ‘buddy’ about? Got a meeting? You two on a project team together or something.”

“No, I was just sick of working so I decided to come up here and shoot the shit with him.”

“I see. Just came up to shoot the shit.  Well we all need a break every now and then don’t we?”

“That’s for sure.”

“Well, at least it wasn’t anything you had to rush to.”

“Yeah.”

“Unfortunately I was, actually I am,  in a bit of a rush. You see I have a very important meeting I need to get to and a very short window of time to get to it so I kind of got a bit miffed when halfway through my ride to the 39th floor the elevator came to an abrupt stop so you could jump in and ride it up one floor.”

“I can see how that might stress you out,” he empathizes, “Sort of like when you run into a traffic jam on the way to work.”

“Exactly.”

“But you really should have left a bit earlier. Just saying.”

“Actually I couldn’t,” I tell him, “ I had back-to-back meetings and my last one was all the way over on West Monroe.”

“You should try blocking off the half hour before and after a meeting on your calendar. It’s a little trick I’ve learned. That way you don’t ever have to worry about getting to a meeting late, even if it’s in another building or your last one runs overtime. ”

“Why thank you Jimmy Neutron!” I say, attempting to conjure the spirit of Samuel L. Jackson. “What an incredibly brilliant and thoroughly innovative idea!”

“Well actually I think most people probably do that so I really can’t take credit. It’s just sorta something you learn over time from experience.  ”

“I was being sarcastic you dumb sonovabitch.”

“Hey, no need for name calling.”

“No, sorry, or course not. Thank you for your tip. I’ll have to remember that from now on.  Now here’s a tip for you, if you’re only going up or down one floor then take the goddamn stairs! Hell, if you’re going up or down ten floors take the stairs! You look like you could use the exercise.”

“Now just what’s that supposed to mean? Are you calling me fat?”

“No, I’m not calling you fat. I’m just saying that your belt is supposed to buckle over your waist not your pubis so you should probably either buy a bigger belt or start taking the stairs more often!”

“Hey now, you’re exactly skinny yourself.”

“Well grant it I’m no Shelley Duvall but let’s face it, if we were mistaken for Laurel & Hardy I’m the one they would more likely be calling Laurel.”

“Laurie who?”

“Exactly,” I reply.

“So what time is this meeting of yours?”  he asks.

“Two thirty,” I say.

He looks at his cheap digital watch and says “It’s two thirty nine. Wow, you’re pretty late.”

“No thanks to your fat lazy ass using the elevator to go one floor!”

“Well if you hadn’t gotten off here to harass and berate me you’d already be there by now.”

“I still would’ve been late. Because of you!”

“You would have been a couple of minutes late and you know that meetings always start a few minutes late. Not nine minutes late though. Actually now it’s ten minutes and at best it’ll probably take another three to four minutes to get there so that’s at least thirteen minutes. They usually start meetings a little bit late but definitely not thirteen minutes late. That’s a lot. You’re gonna be really late for this one. Just sayin’.”

“Go shoot the shit with your pal,” I say then turn to push the button for the elevator.  “Then eat it and die you fat fuck!” I turn back to instruct him.

By the time I get to the conference room I’m sixteen minutes late. Arthur Hewitt, 1st Vice President and Director of Media Relations looks up at me as I attempt to slip in quietly. From his face I can tell I’m in for a rationing of shit when this is over. He’s a real dick about these sorts of things. He’s pretty much a dick in general. You would think someone in his position would be highly charismatic and outgoing. Not so. Hewitt is all business, no personality, and everything he says comes across as some sort of passive aggressive attack on your professionalism. Sometimes he ain’t so passive, like the first time I met with him and he called my boss afterwards to tell him I was in violation of the dress code. I was wearing white socks with a suit, as was my personal style back then. I was subsequently told to discontinue the practice if I wanted to remain employed here. So much for expressing individuality.

Anyway, there are no seats at the table so I take one of the chairs lined up against the door side of the wall. As I sit down I notice Jen Resnick sitting not too far away. Her chair is pushed back slightly from the table, her legs crossed and out from under it. She catches me scanning her wonderful calves and thighs and rolls her eyes before adjusting her posture and rolling herself towards the table, leaving only the back of her chair within my gaze. I suddenly find myself sympathizing with Marvin Martian and his plight, wanting to blow up the Earth on account of it obstructing his view of Venus and all.

When the meeting comes to an end and we begin filing out, Jen turns to me and says “You’re a pig, you know that?”

I want to respond with something witty and charming and just slightly fresh but I can think of no such thing so I just say “But I’ve got a good heart.” She half-smiles and looks like she’s about to say something when I hear Hewitt calling my name. My wounded balls begin to sting again.

“I expect punctuality,” he tells me, “I consider my time a precious commodity and I demand it be respected as such.”

“Sorry Sir, my last meeting ran over time and it was all the way over at the West Monroe building,” I say, reflecting on the irony that “Sir” is considered a term of respect yet I only seem to use it to address people I think are dickheads.

“A little trick SKANLYN,” he says, “Block off the half hour before and after a meeting. Then you’ll never be late for your next meeting.”

I decline to conjure Samuel L. Jackson’s spirit or call him Jimmy Neutron and just tell him that “I will definitely do that from now on.”

“Be sure that you do,” he says.

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17 Comments

““Tomato, tomahto.”  AHAHAHA

You should read/watch dilbert.  (:

Posted 5/5/2013 at 10:50 PM by Facetiouseloquence

We don’t have those kinds of meetings.  I have to go to a meeting on Monday every week and it last an hour.  I meet with the sales people almost every day.  I also meet with the operations people every day and then the working team every day but each of those meetings last about 5 minutes.

Posted 5/5/2013 at 11:5 PM by TheTheologiansCafe

@Facetiouseloquence – Sure.  Are you going to move to Houston?

Posted 5/6/2013 at 9:13 PM by TheTheologiansCafe

@SKANLYN – We appreciate you hosting.

Posted 5/6/2013 at 10:0 PM by TheTheologiansCafe

@TheTheologiansCafe – @Facetiouseloquence – Thanks you two for turning my page into AshleyMadison.com.

Posted 5/6/2013 at 9:19 PM by SKANLYN

@TheTheologiansCafe – Dan I lost my job.  Will you please hire me?  I’ll wear low-cut shirts to work (34DD), please please.

Posted 5/6/2013 at 1:33 PM by Facetiouseloquence

@Facetiouseloquence – Let me know.  There are a ton of jobs in this area.

Posted 5/6/2013 at 10:26 PM by TheTheologiansCafe

Seems like you might could have shaved 12 or so minutes off of that 16 by skipping the conversation with Mr Take-It-Easy

Posted 5/10/2013 at 1:54 PM by blonde_apocalypse

@Crystalinne – you made an amusing post even better, that’s all I meant. =)

It kind of reminded me of this quote:

“Butterflies can’t see their wings. They can’t see how beautiful they are, but everyone else can. People are like that.”

Posted 5/8/2013 at 9:8 AM by nov_way

Mr. Hewitt has a good attitude.

“I suddenly find myself sympathizing with Marvin Martian and his plight, wanting to blow up the Earth on account of it obstructing his view of Venus and all.” Thank you for the chuckles. =)

Posted 5/7/2013 at 6:45 PM by nov_way

@Crystalinne – I love what you’re doing to his page. It’s awesome.

And I am glad you enjoyed that part, as well!

Posted 5/8/2013 at 5:38 AM by nov_way

@nov_way – Not sure what you mean. What am I supposedly doing? I just commented on a post.

Posted 5/8/2013 at 6:23 AM by Crystalinne

@nov_way – @SKANLYN, I too loved how Marvin the Martian’s woes got woven into this story.

Posted 5/7/2013 at 10:2 PM by Crystalinne

@TheTheologiansCafe – Wasn’t going to move south for another 2 years, but if my unemployment status doesn’t change in the next few months, I will start looking then.

@SKANLYN – I knew it was what you wanted.  ❤

Posted 5/6/2013 at 10:22 PM by Facetiouseloquence

I am also forced to attend those interminable diarrhoeia-fests. Sometimes I amuse myself by seeing how many titles of Beatles songs I can work into the discussion, or how many business-buzzword phrases I can coin that include the word “surf”. Shit like that.

Posted 5/30/2013 at 2:25 PM by somewittyhandle

Thankfuly I never have more than one meeting in a day and that is rarely more than once a week.  God that was some good writing

Posted 5/11/2013 at 4:1 PM by trunthepaige

I think I love you.

Posted 5/11/2013 at 3:25 PM by ItsWhatEyeKnow


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On High School Nostalgia and Music for the Dying

Chang chang changitty chang shoobop/The pipes, the pipes are calling

11/30/2016 07:30pm

I was reminded that last Friday was my twenty fifth high school reunion. Go I did not! Why would I? Reunions are, after all, quite stupid. I mean, if I was interested in getting together with any of the people with whom I attended high school, there would be no reason to reunite with them – because they’d still be in my life! But they are not. And they have not been for many a year. In fact, the longest contact I had with anyone from those days lasted until around the August following graduation. Then I went off to college and the next time I would have any interaction with that individual would be some two and a half decades later when he located me through a certain professional networking site. That’s really the only way someone from my past can find me. I do not participate in Facebook or Myspace or any of those other silly social media things and I live more than two thousand miles away from where I grew up, returning to visit on only the most infrequent of occasions. This greatly minimizes the chances I will run into old friends or acquaintances. I rather prefer it this way.

I really do not understand the nostalgia so many people exhibit for their high school days. It seems rather depressing that those four short and fairly insignificant years would be the best days of one’s life. Yet so many feel compelled to continually talk about their so-called glory days when everything was supposedly so fucking wonderful, the pinnacle of their lives, when everyone was a star athlete or a cheerleader or held some prestigious yet utterly meaningless position on the student council. I’ve even witnessed such people pulling out the ol’ year book to gleefully read the idiotic messages their dipshit classmates wrote to them on graduation day. Some of those people have even been known to attend class reunions as often as every five years – if you can believe that! Hell, my own spouse was recently lamenting how she was unable to attend her fifteenth last year. Her high school claims to have the oldest and most active alumni association in the United States – a rather audacious claim that I have not had a chance to fact-check with the Bureau of High School Alumni Association Activity and Longevity Statistics. It wouldn’t surprise me if it were true though. She comes from a shit fuck old mill town in northern New Hampshire where the local Walmart Supercenter is the main employer (the Mills having closed down more than half a century or so ago) and there isn’t a whole lot to do other than participate in the alumni association and get addicted to heroin.

Perhaps I might feel differently about my high school years had I been captain of the football team. Had I dated the homecoming queen. Had I been one of the popular kids. But I wasn’t. In fact –

When I was seventeen

It was a very bad year

It was a very bad year for a pimpled faced kid

From whom the girls ran and hid

They called me a fat fuck

It really did suck

When I was seventeen

No, those certainly were not the best years of my life, though I actually think it would be really pathetic if they were. I’ve evolved quite a bit as a person since 1991. I lost much of my fat fuckedness. My skin isn’t quite as bad. I developed different interests, became motivated by different things. And I certainly don’t listen to the fucking Doors anymore (no kids, Jim Morrison wasn’t deep – he was a whiny, pretentious, self-obsessed little bitch who wrote shitty, amateurish poetry that was set to even shittier music)! I’ve gotten myself a degree, developed a career, lived in multiple states. I’ve met many different people from many different places. And I’ve had assorted life changing experiences. I resemble little of the person I was as a teenager, a person to whom I surely could not relate if I met him today. And if I can’t relate to my seventeen year old self, I certainly would not have been able relate to those jackasses who went to the reunion last Friday night, even if I did spend ninth through twelfth grade with them!

Anyway, as I mentioned a few paragraphs ago, my old friend and classmate found me on a professional networking site a year or so ago and sent me a connection invite. It was accompanied by a message suggesting that he may have been looking to reconnect on a social level. Having not seen or talked to him in so long, I was at quite a loss as to what I possibly could write to him in reply. After laboring over it for a bit, I decided to just say nothing and accept his invite. I thought nothing further of it. Then six months later he sent me another message, this time asking for my Facebook and email information and expressing interest in my input on our upcoming twenty five year reunion. Apparently he was on the planning committee. And apparently he was hoping I would be as well.

Now, were I a more rational human being, I probably would have simply told my old pal that I was not interested. But I’m not. And so I exploded with venom and rage and began composing a most caustic reply to tell him just what a fucking loser I thought he was for not being able to move past high school. To criticize him for what I felt to be an inadequate work history since graduating from college (especially that stint he spent working at a grocery store in the early 2000’s). To call his sexuality into question, speculating that he must be some kind of homosexual (probably infected with the AIDS virus) (not that there’s anything wrong with it) as no self-respecting man could possibly want to be part of a reunion planning committee unless he suffered an insatiable craving for male genitalia and the bodily fluids emanating therefrom. And to rebuke him and the rest of his peers for their limited world view and for being too goddamn scared to move more than five miles from the fucking home where they were raised – a common characteristic of those who originate from the part of the country where I grew up. I guess I must have come to my senses though as, not long after completing this lengthy and painstakingly-detailed dissertation, I opted to delete it without sending. Looking back, I’m glad I did. After all, this had been a good friend of mine and Lord knows I didn’t have a whole lot of those when I was I high school.

While I prudently declined to relay the previously described sentiments to my erstwhile companion, I nonetheless continued to seethe for a bit at his insinuation that I would want any part in planning for, or even attending, the reunion. I was especially irked by the arrogance he displayed in referencing three other committee members in his message – by first name only – expecting me to know who the fuck they were after twenty five years! Truth-be-told, I actually did recognize one of the names as she was the girl that looked like Molly Ringwald (back in the days when people actually knew who Molly Ringwald was), a dead ringer in fact. I’ve drawn a complete blank on one of the other individuals and have absolutely no recollection of anyone with her name. The third person had a first name shared by at least two dozen girls in our graduating class.

For whatever reason, I was zapped by an unusual spark of curiosity that had me pulling up the alumni page on my high school’s website to try and figure things out. I still have no idea who the person with the unrecognized name is. I did, however, manage to figure out the one with the popular name. She appears to be quite active in the alumni association and the website actually had a link to an article written about her in a very well-known publication. It seems that, after graduating college, she became something called a “music thanatologist”. And not only is she a music thanatologist, she’s the preeminent music thanatologist in the entire fucking world!  The music thanatologist of all music thanatologists! She’s written books on the subject. She’s President of the International Order of Music Thanatology Practitioners. The Warren Buffet of music thanatologists, if you will. In music thanatology circles she’s considered a god(dess)!

So what in fuck is music thanatology, you ask? That was my exact question! And so I read the rest of the article and found that it is the practice of playing music for the terminally ill as they pass away. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I thought, “This broad actually makes a living playing the goddamn flute for people while they die?” I guess the image of people being lulled into death with music automatically brought the Pied Piper to mind. This turned out to be an ignorant assumption on my part as music thanatologists actually play the harp. Either way, I couldn’t imagine anything they played would be what I’d want filling my ears during my final moments. I envisioned it to be something along the lines of that new age shit they play at a spa – you know, that awful music that lets you know the place is legit so you best not even think to ask for anything extra at the end of your massage. Still curious, I pulled up some YouTube videos and, I must say, what I heard was actually quite different from that. This so-called music was not your standard melody and rhythm. Rather, it was some sort of potent aural narcotic, one that had me slouching back in my seat, my eyelids drooping, my body and mind in a state of utter submission, ready to surrender my soul to whatever entity, evil or divine, cared to ask for it. This shit is pure evil! They say it was Lucifer that invented music and from listening to those particular notes and chords ringing out from the harp strings, I have no doubt about that. I also have no doubt that it’s music thanatology, not a pitchfork, that he uses to pull the souls of the weak into hell with him. Evil, evil stuff. Although I could not find any video interviews with my old schoolmate online, I did come across quite a few with other practitioners of this black art. All of these individuals were substantially similar in demeanor – slow and soft spoken freaks with distinctively crazy eyes that suggested their audiences may not have died of exactly natural causes.  Unless, of course, a pillow over the face is considered a natural cause these days.

It surely didn’t take discovering that an agent of the Devil was on the planning committee to dissuade me from attending my class reunion. That decision was made back in May of 1991 when I took my diploma and vowed to never look back. It does, however, sure make me glad that I didn’t share my personal information (I certainly don’t need to wake up one night to the sound of harp strings outside my window calling me into the arms of Satan). I won’t lie though. When they publish the next issue of the alumni magazine in the spring, I will certainly check out the online version to have a look at the photographs from that night. Admittedly what I hope to see are wrinkled faces, bald heads, bloated guts, sad forced smiles, though I’d probably be equally happy to see nothing and find out that the reunion was cancelled on account of too many people having too much dignity to attend.

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Why I Don’t Care About Climate Change

And Neither Should You!
01/19/2016 07:30pm

Back when I was in grade school in the mid 80’s, I remember my teacher Mrs. Grimley telling the class about a hole in something called the “ozone layer”. She never clearly explained what the fuck an ozone layer was but apparently a hole in it was a very bad thing. So bad, in fact, that unless I could convince my mommy to stop using aerosol hairspray and my daddy to stop using spray-on deodorant, the polar ice caps would surely melt and the entire planet would be underwater by the year 2000. Scared shitless of this prospect, I went home and demanded that my parents immediately cease use of their chlorofluorocarbon-rich toiletries. They of course told me to me to shut my mouth and mind my own damn business. When I attempted to push the issue, I was reminded that I was just a stupid kid and told not to give them any shit as they would need only squeeze my head if that was what they sought. And so I fell into a state of worry and depression, fearing that inevitable day when we would all go to our watery grave.

The following summer I found myself at the EPCOT Center on a now defunct ride called Horizons which offered a peek into the future (the future then universally presumed to be the year 2000). Among the novel and soon-to-be realized concepts presented was the floating city. “That’s it!” I thought. “We are saved!” Oceans overrunning the land would be of little consequence, thanks to the wonders of modern technology. How could I have had so little faith in our scientists and engineers? We weren’t going to drown after all, thanks to floating cities! Mom could use all the Miss Breck she wanted and Dad could fog his underarms with Right Guard ‘til the fucking cows came home! Stupid Mrs. Grimley and her ozone hole!

While I left EPCOT with a renewed sense of hope, I eventually noticed that nobody, outside the magical world of Disney, seemed to be talking about those floating cities, much less building them. My schoolmates and family would laugh at me whenever I voiced my anxiety about this procrastination. They apparently were naïve to our situation and didn’t realize we would soon all be underwater. And so I conceded that it was hopeless and I dedicated the next few years to worrying about the eventual day when we would meet our fate in Davy Jones locker, any hope for cheering up Sleepy Jean lost forever.

The year 2000 came and went, leaving the oceans in roughly the same place they were when I first heard of that hole in the ozone layer fifteen or so years before. Over the years talk of ozone depletion greatly subsided and people instead began talking about something called a “greenhouse effect” and “global warming”. That never frightened me quite as much as the ozone hole. In fact, I rather liked the idea of global warming. Having grown up in the Northeast with its long and brutal winters, the thought that New York would eventually have the same climate as Miami seemed like it would be quite a welcome change, even if we did lose a few yards of coastline.

Flash forward to last month when world leaders, including our President, were patting themselves on the back for reaching that historical agreement that is supposedly going to save our fragile planet. Yippie! Hope they all had a good time Paris! As for how this will benefit me, I’m not exactly sure. I do, however, see it being a lot more expensive to fuel my car and heat my home. I also anticipate lots of dumb laws and regulations that will greatly diminish the convenience of everyday living, even more so than that stupid plastic bag ban my municipality enacted a few years ago. Though a soothsayer I am not, I predict such legislation will have a ripple effect across the world’s economies, resulting in increased unemployment, higher prices, and a less enjoyable standard of living overall. As for the net effect of all this on our fair planet, I’ve pondered that extensively and the conclusion to which I have come is nothing. Absolutely nothing!

Newsflash people – we’re already living on borrowed time! We can reduce our carbon footprint all we want but it will not change the fact that there is a super-volcano under Yellowstone National Park that is approximately 40,000 years overdue for eruption and when it finally blows it is going to end most life on most of the planet. That is, if one of those thousands of celestial objects floating around our galaxy doesn’t first smash into this big blue marble and render every species, barring the cockroaches and perhaps some fungi and bacteria, extinct. Either way, both are inevitably going to happen and there’s nothing our stupid asses can do about it. Simply put, this world ain’t long for this world. Even if, by some unlikely miracle, we managed to avoid the super-volcano eruption and the asteroid collisions, or if enough of us somehow survived them to continue humanity, it would only briefly postpone the inevitable as Earth (along with most of the solar system) is eventually going to be swallowed by the Sun when it enters its red giant phase. Now were I more a more positive chap, I might subscribe to the delusion that scientists will eventually find a way to send astronauts to the Sun to replace the battery or install a new heat pump or some shit like. But I’m not and, even if that happened, we’d still be shit-out-of-luck! Our infinite universe, you see, is destined for a very finite existence. Scientists tell us that it has been expanding at a rapid and exponential rate ever since the Big Bang. At a certain point it will reach its limit and, unable to expand any further, will rip itself apart, every atom in existence shredding at its nucleus. And then, just as before, there will be nothing. Our existence, our greatest achievements, everything we ever held sacred will be rendered incontrovertibly meaningless.

The cold hard fact that comes out of all this is this simple, though potentially uncomfortable, truth – despite what our egos may tell us, our lives are not special or sacred. In fact, they’re quite insignificant. Regardless of what great things we may accomplish in this life, any trace we ever existed will ultimately be deleted, unrecoverable with even the most sophisticated of Norton’s utilities. Short and trivial, all of it, nothing more than the results of a cosmic mistake that will one day erase itself. To many this is probably quite a depressing realization and they may wonder whether there is any point in going on, whether it might be better to just end it now. I, for one, very much disagree with this sentiment. The reason you ask? Star Wars damnit!

The weekend before Christmas I sat in a packed movie theatre watching The Force Awakens. If there is such thing as a spiritual experience then that was truly it, a communal ascent to nirvana that began the moment “LucasFilm Ltd.” appeared on screen and dissolved into that familiar text reading “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far, way”. I can still hear the thunderous applause that erupted as the John Williams score boomed through the THX sound system and the Star Wars logo appeared before our excited eyes then receded into the background, replaced by the upward scroll telling us what has happened since the last episode. For the next two and a half hours all eyes gazed fixedly on the screen. Not a head turned to the left or to the right, no one so much as looked down at his or her popcorn. Spaceships. Stormtroopers. Droids. A masked villain. Laser blasters. Light sabers. Dog fights between tie fighters and x-wing fighters. A fucking planet that sucks the energy from the sun and uses it to blow up other planets! Holy shit it was awesome! And if all that shit wasn’t enough, our protagonists Rey and Finn, while fleeing from the First Order, desperately board a battered old starship they find in a junk yard and when it takes off into the air it reveals itself to be none other than the Millennium Motherfucking Falcon! The entire place went ape shit crazy! And when Han Solo and Chewbacca showed up, Han declaring “Chewie, we’re home,” the whole joint just about exploded in simultaneous orgasm!

In that theatre, amid all the intergalactic awesomeness, I became quite emotional for the first in many years. My eyes actually became moist under my 3-D glasses and a hard lump formed in my throat as Han Solo proclaimed “it’s real, all of it, the Dark Side, the Jedi, they’re real”. Those words rang deep, transporting me back to a time when it was real – that nine year period over which I saw each episode of the original trilogy. Star Wars, in fact, was all that was real to me back then. Preoccupied with the movies, the books, the Kenner toys, I lived in the ignorant bliss of the moment. They were wonderful days, back when I was free from stress and fear, before I was plagued by thoughts of my own mortality, before I worried about holes in the goddamn ozone layer. In fact, for much of my youth the world was on the brink of annihilation and, for many of those years, I didn’t even know it! My obsession with the Jedi, the Force, the Sith, the Dark Side kept me completely oblivious to the fact that the United States and Soviet Union had thousands of nuclear warheads pointed at one another in a scenario Carl Sagan likened to two lunatics standing waist deep in gasoline and threatening each other with matches. It would have taken only a pigeon being misinterpreted on a radar screen and we’d all have been incinerated! That of course never happened and I was none-the-worse for the years I failed to worry about the possibility. Had those missiles been launched, however, I would have enjoyed every second of my life, fearless and worry-free right up to the very instant I was vaporized.

And isn’t that, my friends, what it’s all about? That is, those isolated places we can build in space and time where we can take shelter from what’s happening elsewhere in the present, where we can blind ourselves to the misfortunes currently in-transit from our future, where we can turn off reality and let ourselves be entertained. I’m not sure what’s in your shelter but in mine there’s a screen and projected onto that screen, in a continuous loop, are Episodes IV, V, VI, and VII.

Now I realize that not everyone is a Star Wars fan and when I speak of it, I of course do so representatively, as a stand-in for our popular culture and all the things that entertain us. What makes it such a great example is that thousands of man hours and hundreds of millions of dollars were dedicated to creating this thing that is seemingly so unnecessary and without practical purpose. Star Wars didn’t cure any diseases, it didn’t feed the hungry, it didn’t lower crime rates, it didn’t generate clean energy, and it sure as hell didn’t restore the ecosystem. What it did do, however, was make people happy for a few hours. And in the grand scheme of our pre-nothingness, that is what makes everything worthwhile.

Sure, our existence may be a mistake. But we still have it. And we have all that bullshit that goes with it – the perpetual threat of financial insecurity, the loss of loved ones or love itself, family turmoil, health concerns, the eventual antiquation of our bodies and minds as we descend into the depths of arthritic pain, brittling bones, erectile dysfunction, incontinence, and dementia. Yes, like it or not, there’s some really unpleasant shit lurking over the horizon for us and it’s all completely unavoidable. But we can seize and enjoy the moments before it gets to us. We can do so by enjoying and appreciating all those people, places, and things that entertain us, that distract us from the horrors and cold realities of this world, that give us reason to carry on despite the fact that we will be dead one day and it will all be as if it never happened.

And so, let us acknowledge and pay tribute:

To James Bond and Indiana Jones and Dirty Harry and Rambo and Batman and all those screen personalities who allow us to experience the adventures our dull lives don’t permit us.

To KISS and Metallica and Ozzy and Mick and Keith and that band with the groovy lights and the flying pig who give us reason to bang our heads, who compose the soundtrack to our lives, and who blow our minds with their concert spectacles.

To JLo and Beyonce and Britney Spears and Nicki Minaj for their boner-inducing videos and the mediocre-but-mildly-catchy tunes all the kids like so much.

To those fruits in One Direction and 5 Seconds of Summer and that little asshole Justin Bieber for the smiles and rare moments of happiness they bring to the otherwise bitchy and morose adolescent girls.

To the Kardashians and Posh Spice and the bitches from The Hills who allow us to vicariously live their glamorous lives.

To Disney World and Disney Land and Cedar Point and Knott’s Berry Farm and Six Flags and Chuck E. Cheese for providing us amusement and breaking up the monotony of our otherwise mundane lives.

To Football and wrestling and UFC and Monster Truck rallies for giving us something to cheer about and rally around and for serving as the backdrop to our irresponsible beer consumption and reckless behavior.

To Smartphones and Smart TVs and tablets and all those other assorted gadgets and gizmos that gratify our narcissistic desire to instantly share our vacation photos, breakfast choice, and current mood with the world; that allow us to watch our favorite reality shows and pornography on demand; that enable us to aerially surveil our neighbors’ yards for no legitimate purpose.

“But what of our Queen Mother Earth?” some of you may ask, as if we owe her something. You such individuals may question why we should not acknowledge and pay tribute to her, why we shouldn’t show our gratitude for all she provides by sacrificing our comfort and taking every possible measure to sustain her, even if only for another century or two. To you I say this – FUCK YOUR MOTHER EARTH! She’s a murdering whore who commits genocide on a regular basis with her with her earthquakes, tsunamis, volcanic eruptions, hurricanes, tornadoes, and other assorted weapons! If she were a person, rather than a planet, we’d be putting the bitch on trial for crimes against humanity! As for the potential future generations that may have gotten a chance to exist if there had been only a moderate reduction in greenhouse gases – WELL FUCK THEM TOO! They’ll never know it!

To quote Prince, “life is just a party, and parties weren’t meant to last”. Nonetheless a party is a party so I say let’s make it a good one! Eventually, and probably sooner than we realize, it will be over. How tragic it would be to have endured a shitty party on account of eco-friendliness, to have squandered our precious and wholly non-refundable time on the most futile of efforts. That would surely be as wasteful as the years I spent worrying about that ozone hole – worthwhile hours that I could have spent masturbating or otherwise enjoying life!

But if you wish to spend your remaining days worrying yourself sick about receding sea ice, acid rain, vampire energy, and beef cows shitting methane gas into the atmosphere, then so be it. I ask only that you don’t infringe on my inalienable right to pursue happiness, to be a consumer, to exercise my God given right to rape the land for all I can get from her. So go ahead, drive your Smart Car. Go without air conditioning in the summertime. Conserve and recycle then conserve some more and recycle again. It may not do much in the way of preserving a doomed planet in a self-destructing universe but perhaps it will help alleviate some of that psychotic guilt from which you suffer. As for me, I shall be partying like it’s nineteen ninety nine!

Carpe diem bitches! And may the Force be with you.

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Paris Attacks

The Real Villain
11/14/2015 05:00pm

Once again there has been a terrorist attack and once again people in the Western world are exploiting it to promote hatred for Islam. Before we start criticizing the Jihadist warriors, let us consider the root cause here. Islam is a religion of peace. But even peaceful people can be pushed into violence when subjected to ongoing oppression. France’s Islamophobia is well known. A decade or so ago they banned headscarves in public places and recent studies have shown that Muslim candidates are five times less likely to be granted a job interview than Jews or Catholics. This has led to widespread unemployment among France’s Muslim community. As ridiculous as it sounds, employers would rather have the perpetrators of the Spanish Inquisition, the Crusades, and numerous abortion clinic bombings working for them than qualified, highly skilled individuals who happen to be of the Muslim faith. Is it any wonder that young, hopeless, unemployed Muslims might be compelled to join an interest group like ISIS? And that’s just, of course, the tip of the iceberg. I won’t even get into the extreme insensitivity shown towards Muslims by that awful magazine Charlie Hebdo that is so popular among the French people.

Before everyone starts criticizing so-called “radical Islam”, let us recognize who the real villain is here – actor Rob Lowe. During the height of the attacks this insensitive, racist, inhuman piece of garbage had the audacity to tweet “Oh, NOW France closes its borders” (his emphasis, not mine). Now I can understand the desperate actions of desperate people. I, of course, don’t agree with or support terrorism for any reason. I can, however, forgive people who were broken by the inhumane conditions forced upon them. What I can’t forgive is hate speech such as that expressed by Rob Lowe. His vile disregard for the plight of Syrian refugees and xenophobic sentiments are the very things that incite the type of violent attacks that happened yesterday in France. In an ideal world, this sonovabitch would be put on trial for crimes against humanity (applying Sharia Law to ensure appropriate justice is administered). Unfortunately, the most for which we can hope is his blacklisting in Hollywood. Maybe not the outcome I’d prefer but, if it precludes St. Elmo’s Fire II from being produced, then I suppose we should just be grateful for that much and chalk it up as a win.

City of Traffic

Can’t Remember Anything at All
10/19/2015 07:30pm

I can sometimes smell the spring coming, even though it’s fall, soon to be supplanted by the scentless air of winter. In those moments I feel hope and joy and renewal. My tired brain ceases to ache for a moment or two. But then I’m back. Fighting to stay awake, my energy bleeds from me until I am empty. I sit behind the wheel in this city of traffic, no longer able to pound my steering wheel, scream profane words, or gnash my teeth. Nick Cave sings from the stereo about driving his car down to Geneva whilst passing a series of flame trees on fire. He offers to teach his prospective lover the Higgs Boson Blues but admits he can’t remember anything at all. And neither can I.

I know I’m heading somewhere south of here but I’ve been nearly motionless for so long that I cannot remember where I’m going or why. Wherever, for whatever, I’m sure it’s too late to matter. Nothing seems to matter anymore. Time moves on, as it always has, but in the relative universe of this car, of all the cars on this highway, it has fallen substantially out of sync, barely progressing at the rate of more than a few inches an hour. All I can do is sit here, listening to music. That’s all any of us can do. Yes, out there beyond this endless river of stationery vehicles are places we’d like to be, people we’d like to see, things we’d like to do. But that is all an impossible dream now.

It wasn’t always.

There used to be a train. Multiple trains in fact, traveling on multiple rail lines. Through a series of interchanges one could get anywhere in the city with relative ease. But then rapid transit was declared to be of the Devil, something for the wicked people of those big cities. Not for us good people. We are, after all, a place of small town values, though the population of a metropolis we may have. Those high rise towers on the shoreline and at the city center, let them and their occupants be damned! Those who live there, work there, have business there – they can all drive there goddamnit!

Horns beep angrily in the distance behind me – drivers who haven’t made it as far as me, who aren’t quite as spent yet. Soon they will be. But until then they will stew in the frustrations of life, their psyches slowly boiling into a profuse hatred for humanity. With teeth gritted they reflect on their ingrate children, their nagging wives, lazy coworkers, the whistlers and the throat clearers and the loud breathers, and those long-haired shaggy-bearded de-generates who reek of cannabis smoke and evangelize their Unitarian pseudo-faith, vegan lifestyle, and gluten free diet. “Fuck them and their organic produce!” the horns seem to be screaming from the horizon in my rearview mirror.

The traffic momentarily begins to move, resurrecting the hope that they will soon be where they intend to be, for many that being home. When it stops again, tranquil visions of the family bliss that awaits them turn to thoughts of the toys left on the living room floor, the unwashed dishes piled in the sink, the lights left on in unoccupied rooms, and the grievances of their disgruntled spouses over their alleged lack of participation in important household matters. Rebuked for their perpetual absence during the hours they are attempting to accrue the financial means necessary to sustain their families’ comfortable lives, they are perhaps blamed for the tantrums of their defiant children. Sometimes there are even unfounded accusations of infidelity, ultimatums, threats of dissolution.

No, this isn’t the entirety of their lives. In fact, there are many times of great joy. But sitting in that car – unable to move, watching the sun slip away, witnessing the blue sky turning black, watching the present evaporate and become forever lost – the memories of those many happy times become as degraded as a radio signal at the perimeter of its range. Eventually they dissolve into pure static then reform as flashbacks of those irksome provocations and resentments over hypothetical future events that ultimately lead to self-fulfilling prophecies. Knuckles are bruised and bloodied, hair is pulled, teeth are chipped, pharynxes go raw, and angry shrieks grow hoarse. And then it burns out. Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it ends up on the nightly news – a violent act of road rage, an office shooting, a family murder-suicide.

But for the grace of God . . .

In my own moments back there I often find myself seething at the thought that this is all caused by a slow moving convoy up in front, organized and executed by a gaggle of bitter old men intent on teaching us “whippersnappers” some perverse lesson on punctuality. Surely you know the geriatric motherfuckers of whom I speak, those early-rising cantankerous pricks who denounce our lazy asses for daring to sleep past 4am and who admonish our audacious acceptance of modern technology, citing it as prima facie evidence of our intellectual inferiority (“Nobody ain’t gotta learn nuthin’ these days on account of them computas doin’ all their thinkin’ for ‘em!”). Blaming us for sending their once great country down the tubes, they are quick to profess their patriotism while, at the same time, praising the so-called “Chinks”, Saddam Hussein, and the Stalin-era Soviets for knowing how to keep their people in line. “The trouble is,” they are prone to saying, “people in this country got too much damn freedom!”

Living by some dumb shit creed that “If you ain’t at least half an hour early then you’re late”, these pieces of Jurassic era dog shit spread themselves across all lanes, riding along at half the pace of a slow moving snail. They cause multiple accidents in their wake as unsuspecting drivers are forced to slam their breaks upon encountering the sudden drop-off in velocity. Lanes are closed and emergency vehicles are dispatched, bringing about what the chopperman calls “pockets of congestion”. A ripple effect sweeps across the highway as rubbernecking leads to further collisions and entire portions of the road are shut down, many times detoured through already slow moving construction zones. The surly old fucks smile in satisfaction, the chaos and carnage they’ve caused being the one, singular source of gratification in their otherwise miserable and meaningless lives.

I feel an unexpected surge of energy as a final reserve of epinephrine I didn’t know I had is released into my brain and my mind floods with thoughts of grabbing one of these stupid old fucks and beating him to death with his cane. “In my day . . .,” he attempts to explain as I strike the first blow. With his laments of those good old days of “separate but equal”, “duck and cover”, “a chicken in every pot”, and “better dead than red” echoing in my head, I bash his imaginary skull until I can bash no more. My gorgeous victory is sadly washed away, however, by thoughts of the multiple prison rapes I will be forced to endure at the state penitentiary before finally being capitally punished when the Governor denies my appeal for clemency. Rather unfair, it seems, that I should be dragged to the death chamber at my relatively young age considering that my victim was such an ancient prick. Should they not wait until I am at least the same age he was when I murdered him? The Good Book does say “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth” which does seem to infer a certain sense of equivalency with regard to the exchange. Certainly a healthy, fully functioning eye for a disgusting, cataractous old peeper is not within the spirit of the Law. And could our Lord possibly consider the extraction of one of my pearly whites to be fair recompense for a nasty, malodorous, saliva-corroded denture? Of course not!

The adrenaline fizzles out and I sink back into my seat, even more exhausted than before. This time I am fully empty. I am not even sure I could muster the energy to press down on the accelerator were this traffic to start moving again. For better or worse that does not happen. Still unable to remember where I’m going, I start rehashing a prominent childhood fantasy.

As a bored school boy I would often find myself daydreaming about owning a dirigible. Though not exactly sure where I would procure such a vehicle or how I would learn to fly it (the old NYNEX Yellow Pages revealed our metro area to be somewhat lacking when it came to both dirigible retailers and dirigible aviation schools), I would nonetheless plan all of the wonderful things I would do once I had one. In particular, I would climb aboard everyday around 3pm and fly down to the bus stop to offer my classmates a ride home. I’m not sure why I didn’t think to fly it to the actual school and pick them up there but it probably had something to do with the lack of a mooring tower on campus. Of course that then begs the question of how I would exit the bus, run home, board my dirigible, and fly it back down to the bus stop quicker than the other kids could walk home. I’m sure I would have figured it out though. Either way, my dirigible was sure to make me the most popular kid in school. And surely it would impress Lisa Nowlin!

Lisa Nowlin was a pretty blonde girl in the same grade as me and who rode the same bus as me but had never been in the same class as me. She lived way up on Lynn Road, the furthest point from our bus stop, which meant we would have ample time to get to know one another during the dirigible flight home and we would even be afforded some alone time between when we dropped Matt Sullivan off and when we got to her house. But alas, there never was a dirigible to provide for that. If only I had saved my allowance and the money relatives would give me for Christmas and birthdays instead of indulging in those reckless spending sprees at ChildWorld and KayBee. Then maybe I could have accumulated the funds to buy that dirigible for real instead of just fantasizing about it. Then Lisa Nowlin would have loved me. Surely she would! And we would have been very happy together, I just know it! In fact, our eventual divorce would be nothing less than amicable, the settlement most fair and equitable. Even after parting ways we would remain great friends through the years, so much so that when my second marriage ended there would be opportunity to rekindle our romance. Lisa, of course, would have remained chaste the whole time, waiting for me. How could she not? Surely no man who does not own a dirigible can compete with one who does (and there are not many who do).

I sometime wonder where sweet Lisa Nowlin is these days and what she’s doing, whether she’s married, if she has kids, if she found herself a man with a dirigible. If she did, then I guess I am happy for her. She and I, it seems, were just never meant to be. Nor was my ambition to a have a dirigible. That’s a dream I now recognize to be as dead as Hoyt Axton. How silly it was, my fleeting thought that it would somehow materialize at this moment, allowing me to sail away from all of this on a cloud of helium, far, far away from the infinite wall of brake lights now before me, the swirling sea of exhaust fumes that engulfs me. Dismissing my stupid thought, I notice how full my bladder is and realize that pissing my pants is my only option.

Oh how I long for all of this to just be over already, to be back sitting in my basement patio. Looking over at the dashboard clock, the display confirms that, whatever this was all about, it’s too late. Under my heavy eyelids it all goes black. And I can’t remember anything at all.

Can’t remember anything at all.

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A Hateful Take on the Recent Terror Attacks in France

 

Mz. Hate n’est pas Charlie Hebdo
01/10/2015 6:00pm

Today we again go to Quincy, Massachusetts for a chat on recent events with our favorite bitter old hag Mz. Hate.

Good afternoon Mz. Hate. How are you today?

Oh just tell me what the fark you want already. You people with yaw good arftanoons and yaw questions about how I’m doin’. Ya know how I’m doin’?! Ya really wanna know how I’m doin’?!

Of course.

IT’S NONE OF YAW GAWDAMN BIZZNISS HOW I’M DOIN’!!! That’s how I’m doin’! Now ask me yaw stupid farkin’ questions before I hang-up the gawdamn phone!

Very well then. As you know, there’s been a recent wave of terrorist activity in France, including a shooting at the offices of the satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo, where twelve people were killed, and a standoff at a kosher supermarket in Paris which left four hostages dead.

Meh, what can you do?

Doesn’t seem like you’re very sympathetic.

I’ve never cared much faw those slug and toad eating farking arseholes. You know, them people don’t bathe. They say the average French person uses harf a bah of soap a year. Can you believe that? In a whole farking year they don’t even wash enough to use harf a gawdamn bah of soap! It must stink to high heaven over there with all them slimy, dirty bastids!

That aside, you’ve got to admit that what happened last week was extremely tragic.

Oh I could give gawdamn less! Nobuddy seems to even care anymore about what happened at our farking Marathon a cupla years ago. Everybuddy’s all of a sudden all concerned about France. Fark France! They’ve never shown us one bit of farkin’ gratitude faw rebuilding their gawdamn country after World Waw Two! And fark New Yawk too! Those loud mouth farking crybabies have been whining about their farkin’ Twin Towahs faw farking years! Get the fark over it already! We had the same thing happen at the Marathon but they ain’t making a big deal about it every year on the anniversary with the farking moments of silence and reading everybuddy’s gawdamn names.

Well you can’t really compare 9/11 to what happened at the Boston Marathon. I mean three thousand Americans were killed on 9/11.

And there woulda been just as many here, if nawt more, but the Baswsten Police managed to stop those savages before they could do anymore farking damage. Gawd bless those men.

The bombers??

No, the farking cawps you arsehole!

Oh, okay. Anyway, I’m still not sure you can put the Marathon bombing in the same category as 9/11. I mean a few improvised explosive devices made from pressure cookers and small enough to be hidden in backpacks are hardly capable of inflicting the same amount of damage as jet planes being flown into two 110 story office buildings where 50,000 people were working.

Well the impawtant thing is they’ve nevah been able to do that in Bawsten.

Well, putting aside the fact that those two planes took off from Boston, I’m not sure the Police had any role in preventing the Tsarnaev boys from pulling off an attack of that same scale on Marathon day. In fact, one could conclude that, had the Police been properly doing their job that day, those bombs would have never detonated.

Now you just wait a minute! Those men put their lives on the line every day faw you and me’s sake. They can’t possibly stop every farkin’ towelhead that decides to set off a bomb in Ali-Baba’s name. What’s impawtant is that they caught those sonovabitches.

Yes, but only after a dangerous and probably unnecessary shoot out in Watertown and an unconstitutional door-to-door search of every house. But you are correct, in the end they managed to kill one of them and capture the other. Still, it would have been infinitely preferable if those boys never got the chance to set their bombs off in the first place.

You give the cawps a break. They do the best jawb they can. Bad enough they have to deal with all the shootings and stabbings the gawdamn blacks and Puerto Ricans are always doing, now they gotta be looking out faw A-rabs try’na blow-up the Marathon.

I believe the Tsarnaev Brothers were/are Chechnyan not Arabic.

Huh? What the fark are you saying?

Just that they were from Chechnya, a former Soviet Republic, not any Arabic country.

Either way. I tell ya it’s a disgrace that the Rollin’ Stones put that bastid, the one that ended up livin’, on the cover of their magazine. I never liked that jerk with the big lips, what’s-his-name, Mike Jabber.

I think it was actually Charlie Watts’ idea.

What?

Oh nothing.

Well if you ain’t got anything more to say then I got a farkin’ hair appointment to get ready faw. Gawd, I hope Irene is back from farking maternity leave already so I don’t get stuck with that Vietnamese girl again. I can’t understand a farking word she’s sayin’.

Well, um, I wish you well that. You have a good day Mz. Hate.

Oh go shit in yaw farkin’ hat you farkin’ arsehole.

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A Hateful New Year

 

Introducing Mz. Hate

01/01/2015 9:00pm

Well it’s 2015 and I’m not feeling any more motivated than I felt in 2014. I’ve got lots of posts in my head at the moment but I’m too damn lazy to turn any of them into posts on my page. Still, I really want to write something – just something that won’t require the energy and effort that I usually put into my posts. And so I’ve decided to enlist the help of world renowned psycho-bitch Mz. Hate, a perpetually angry 59 year old divorcee hailing from Quincy, Massachusetts. A bitter old lady from the moment her mom shit her from the womb, Mz. Hate spends her days venomously ranting and raving about how much everything sucks and how everybody is a fucking asshole. In my writer’s lethargy I thought it might make for an easy and fun series of posts if I were to present a selection of topics to her and transcribe her reactions to them. Today we talk to her about New Year’s.

Happy New Year to you Mz. Hate.

What’s so farkin’ happy about it? It’s freezin’ farkin’ cold, there’s crime everywhere – did ya hear about those two cops that were killed in New Yawk? Then we got that arsehole Putin over there in Russia tryna stahrt anutha Cold Waw and that shithead over there in Nawth Korea, Kim John-whatever-the-fark-his-name-is. I tell you, the whole world has gone to the shittah and it ain’t gonna change anytime soon! Not as long as we got that gawdamn black in the White House anyway. Ha! Tell me that ain’t irony! I remember when them people weren’t even allowed to use our watah foun’ins. Now we got one of them as our Commander-in-Farkin’-Chief. My great, great grandfather must be rollin’ over in his farkin’ grave! You know, he actually moved to Virginia during the Civil War to fight for the Confederate Army. If only more young men his age would have done the same, maybe we wouldn’t be cursed with this black devil running the country now.

Um, well okay. So did you partake in any of the First Night festivities? Having lived up there in the Boston area for a few years I know they put on quite a celebration.

Are you shittin’ me? Me – stand out there in the cold with those farkin’ arseholes waiting faw them to count down to midnight? You gotta be outta yaw gawddamn mind. And all those animals out there, drinkin’, gettin’ drunk, pushin’ and shovin’ and blowin’ those gawdamn noisemakers. And then there’s the fireworks! So farking loud! I don’t even like them on the Fourth of Farking July. What would make me wanna go see them when it’s cold out? And then those stupid 2015 sunglassses. What kind of farkin’ arsehole would wear sunglasses at night?

Corey Hart?

Huh? What the fark are you sayin’?

Oh, nothing. He was a singer back in the 80’s who had a popular song about wearing his sunglasses at night .They used to play the video on MTV all the time.

MTV – I tell ya, that’s what ruined this country. The kids started watchin’ those videos and next thing you know they all got the crazy hair and the boys are wearing earrings and the girls all wanna be sluts like that Madonna. Whatever happened to her anyway?

She’s still around. Puts out a record every few years.

I woulda figured she died of AIDS a long time ago, that farkin’ whore! The trash kids like today! In my day we had wholesome singers like Perry Como and we watched Lawrence Welk every Saturday night.

Yeah, I guess those were the days. So any News Year’s resolutions?

Yeah, to get the fark outta Quincy. There’s too many gawddamn blacks here. It’s starting to become like Dawchestah. I’d really like to move up to New Hampsha. They ain’t got no blacks up there. It must be like Heaven on farkin’ earth.

Not much into the diversity I see.

I don’t mind the Orientals. I mean I wouldn’t want them living next door to me or nuthin’ but their kids are at least well behaved and they do such a good job with my nails. And if you ever need to take your clothes to the cleanahs – so convenient. They’re always open! Don’t matter if it’s six am or ten at night or Christmas day them people are always workin’. Nuthin’ like those blacks and Puerto Ricans. I just don’t like their food. I remember my sistah once got me to try that pork fried rice of theirs. I got so sick. I was pukin’and shittin’ faw days. Not very good in the kitchen. Very dirty people. I don’t think they wash their hands much, it’s part of their culture or something. They’re nice but dirty.

I see. So any words of wisdom for my reader’s this New Year’s?

Men, cut yaw damn hair and shave your gawdamn faces. How do you expect to attract a decent woman if you look like the bearded farkin’ lady from the circus. And faw gawd’s sakes, put on a suit and a tie when you go out in public. You look like a bum with the faded dungarees and the t-shirts.

Women, lower those farkin’ skirts and cover your boobs and stop puttin’ on so much gawdamn make-up. No respectable guy wants to be seen with someone who looks like a hooka. And stop spreading yaw legs faw every Tom, Dick, and Harry. A man ain’t gonna marry a cow if she’s giving everyone milk faw free.

Words of wisdom indeed. Thank you Mz. Hate and Happy New Year.

Oh go fark yourself. I’m late for BINGO.

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‘tis the Season

Pointless Yuletide Reflections

12/14/2014 8:00pm

“I love you baby,” Shelby-Ann Clemmons told her big brother Bobby-Roy Clemmons. They were standing on the curb outside the Jefferson Davis Dixie Diner & Tobacco Emporium, Bobby-Roy’s rusty yellow ’86 Dodge Daytona parked in the handicap spot in front of them.

“I love you too Shelby-Ann,” Bobby-Roy said and pulled her close to him,  libidinously pressing his lips to hers. “Now let’s go kill Santa Claus.”

Well Christmas is upon us one again – time for toys and time for cheer motherfuckers! Hard to believe I haven’t made a new post to this silly blog since May and I wrote only one other new post this year! I can’t say I’ve ever really been a prolific blogger as I’ve always felt that one should actually have something to say before saying something. Perhaps I should get over that hang-up or just quit blogging altogether. Seems my destiny is the former as I’m now writing a meaningless post that is conspicuously absent of inspiration or point. While I actually do have a few ideas kicking around in this foggy brain of mine, I’ve neither the energy or motivation to convert them into prose at this point. Still, I feel like writing something so I shall type my way through the haze and through the malaise with no idea as to where it will go or what I will say.

It’s Christmas time again, as I’ve mentioned, and everywhere I go Christmas music is playing. I really hate Christmas music. I’m not sure what it is about it that annoys me so much. Maybe it’s those damn bells that are in every song. Why does every Christmas song have to have fucking bells in it? Jingle, jangle, ring-ring-ring! Fuck you Burl Ives! Fuck you Andy Williams! And fuck you Mannheim Steamroller! Actually, I’m not sure Mannheim Steamroller uses bells in their music but I still want to say fuck you to them. And to the Trans-Siberian Orchestra too! Okay, so I over-generalized. Not every Christmas song has bells in it! I don’t believe there are any bells in “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”. It is, however, about getting an underage girl drunk during a snow storm and taking advantage of her, which is probably worse. I’m not actually sure what this song has to do with Christmas, other than that providing alcohol to minors and statutorily raping them apparently becomes acceptable during the joyous time each year that precedes the coming of our Lord. But anyway.

“White Christmas” – that one doesn’t have bells in it either. Or maybe it does, I just it missed it. I’m not sure why anyone would ever dream of a white Christmas with its implications on holiday travel and assorted other dangers and all. Seems like more of a nightmare than a dream to me. Whenever I hear Bing Crosby crooning the words I think about a family of four driving to grandma’s house when they skid on the snow and slide into the oncoming traffic lane, hitting another car, causing both to spin out of control until they hit a tree and a sign post respectively. Bloodied passengers, in various states of dismemberment, eject through the windshield, landing in the pure white snow and staining it crimson. I also think of an old man shoveling his walkway when he drops his shovel, clutches his chest, and falls into the snow, convulsing until he dies from cardiac arrest as his grandkids cry out “No grandpa! No!” Then there’s the children innocently playing on a hillside when an avalanche consumes them, leaving behind all those new toys with which they will never get the chance to play. That’s your White Christmas assholes! I’m so glad I now live in a part of the country where it doesn’t snow, except on the rarest of occasions.

Not everyone around here seems to share those sentiments, however, and many have apparently bought into Bing’s sugar-coated description of winter’s vengeance. Thus every moron and his/her fucking mother was at one of the local outdoor malls last weekend for the so-called “Snow Day” they had. They advertised it as some sort of magical winter wonderland where you could build a snowman, go for a toboggan ride, and make angels in the snow. In reality it was a patch of shaved ice produced by a big Snoopy Snowcone Machine-like device situated just outside of the Barnes & Noble. Snow it was not! Nonetheless there were lots of ill-behaved little brats reveling in the opportunity to chuck ice balls at everyone within their reach. Those who weren’t hurling ice balls were running to their parents with tears streaming down their cheeks after having been smashed in the face by one or more of the frozen projectiles flying about. Brings to mind the rock fights we used to have when I was young.

Whatever happened to rock fights anyway? Kids don’t seem to throw rocks at each other nowadays. Le sigh.

Anyway,

You better watch out
You better not cry
You better not pout
I’m telling you why
‘CAUSE I’LL GET THE MARINES AFTER YOU!!!

Sorry, just having a childhood flashback – we used to sing that in mockery of Richie Donnelly’s dad. The elder Donnelly, an avid reader of Soldier of Fortune magazine, was a former Marine who served in ‘Nam and loved every fucking minute of it. Convinced that a Red Dawn-like scenario was imminent, he began stockpiling weapons in preparation for the coming invasion and encouraged everybody else in the neighborhood to do the same. I tell you, it broke that motherfucker’s heart when they finally tore down the Berlin Wall. I guess I can understand why. That Howitzer in the backyard was not cheap! Nor were all those shells he bought for it. Stupid Gorbachev and his Perestroika!

Well, I guess I’m out of things to say. Not that I had anything to say in the first place. As for those two love birds, Bobby-Roy and Shelby-Ann, they headed to the North Pole with vengeance on their mind and passion in their loins. Along the way they met a disgruntled former employee of Mr. Claus – a bitter, hard drinking elf named Fibonnacci whose inside knowledge proved most vital in breaching the security at Santa’s compound. Just how did they make out? Maybe next Christmas I’ll be able to tell you that. This Christmas it’ll be another re-post of “Santa’s Revenge” which I’ve posted every year since writing it back in December of 2009.

Here’s to a more inspired 2015.

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Sit Yo’ Ass Down!

Is Everybody In? Is Everybody In? The Ceremony is About to Begin.
05/04/2014 8:00pm

I am a person who is not easily entertained. I’ve had little interest in TV since the 80’s and there are few movies that compel me to bring myself to the theatre. As for books, Elmore Leonard is dead and Barry Gifford has ceased writing novels in favor of negligibly entertaining short stories about a kid named Roy. Aside from pornography, the only thing that consistency provides enjoyment to me is music. Consequently I attend concerts on a fairly regular basis.

Going to shows is something to which I look forward with lots of anticipation during the period between when I purchase the tickets and when I finally arrive at the venue on the night of the show. Over the last few years, however, I’ve become increasingly irritated by the people I find surrounding me whenever I attend a concert. Perhaps I’ve gotten old before my time but, for God’s sake, can we please implement a law that forces people to stay in their fucking seats during a rock concert! That is, once the band hits the stage, the entrances are to be locked and anybody with a seat must sit their ass in it and stay in it for the duration of the show! If you’re the type of jackass who feels compelled to stand and gyrate like an idiot and make continuous trips to the beer stand and restroom then fine – buy tickets for the lawn section or the pit damnit! Honestly I cannot understand why anybody would pay extra money for a chair and spend the whole fucking show standing. But they do!

Anyway, a few weeks ago I attended a show by a band that has implemented a dress code for their latest tour. I was admittedly annoyed at first when I read the tickets and saw that formal attire or a costume was required, especially considering that it was an outdoor show and I live in part of the country that is typically pretty warm, if not unpleasantly hot, in April. The more I thought about it, however, the more I began to like the idea. People certainly didn’t go to see Sinatra at the Sands wearing a t-shirt and shorts so why should this show be any different? It’s about time people started becoming respectable again, I thought to myself. And surely somebody who takes the time to dress up isn’t going to spend the show acting like a fucking idiot. Now I wasn’t going to go overboard and rent a tuxedo or anything but I did put on a nice suit while my significant other wore a dress suitable for the type of cocktail party that the classy people who would be attending this show might throw. Or so I thought.

“I’m gonna beat you with my shoe,” she said to me upon looking around the venue. Out of an audience of around 18,000 people, we were two of approximately six individuals that actually dressed for the occasion. As for the other 17,994 people – tees, flip flops and sandals, beachwear, sweat pants. There were a few more tactful individuals in jeans, the more sophisticated of them wearing bowling shirts. In a most strange twist of irony, we who actually complied with the terms of our tickets looked like total fucking freaks among these uncouth savages who showed no regard for the band, their fellow audience members, or civilized society as a whole. At one point, while walking to our seats, I noticed a couple of white trash scuzzos looking at us snickering. I’m not sure what they were saying to each other but I imagined the word faggot being used to describe me. After all anybody who would comply with a dress code, much less own a suit that probably costs more than their combined salary from the KFC over the last three months, must be a gay homosexual. Okay, so the price of my suit probably wasn’t the best example to use when trying to invoke sarcasm but you get the point.

As the lights dimmed and the band took the stage, everybody rose from their seats (staying that way for the next few hours) and the moral degenerates sparked-up their joints. A few minutes earlier a couple of guys had taken their seats in front of us. One of them, a greasy haired and unshaven fellow in a neon orange shirt, struck me as particularly obnoxious. “There he is,” I said to my significant other, “the douche bag who’s going to ruin the show for us.”

“No he’s not,” she replied, “Stop being negative.”

I must admit, she was 100% right. When the show began I hardly even noticed his presence. I had prejudged. I had also committed the sin of assumption. Not with him but with assuming the empty seat to the right of me would stay empty. After all what else would I think a half hour in? Needless to say, the seat was not unsold. After five or six songs, a drunken neo-hippie jerk-wad wearing a tie-die t-shirt and a bandana on his head stumbled into the aisle and took his place standing in front of the seat next to me. Apparently he knew the people to the right of him as he chatted with them for a bit (and by chatting I mean screamed at the top of his lungs, so as to be heard over the music), had a drooly make-out session with a girl that was with them, then began dancing like a fucking idiot. Annoying as it was to be seeing this in the peripheral of my vision, it became nothing short of infuriating when he began dancing into my personal space. I should also mention that he had large can of what looked like beer but smelled like tequila that he held high above his head as he danced, causing it to spill down on him and everything in his proximity . This happened to include me every time he danced into that very narrow space between my body and the seat in front of me. Thoroughly annoyed, I searched my jacket pocket for a pen or some other sharp object with which to stab him but I found none. I began forcefully shoving him back into his own space every time his improvised choreography brought him into mine but, in his intoxicated state, he seemed to not even notice.

Do I take my belt off and strangle him with it? I thought to myself. No, they have the death penalty in this state and even if I had a decent lawyer the best I could hope for would be life in prison without parole. Maybe I should just punch him out. Yes, he was a lot bigger than me but he was also quite uncoordinated in his alcohol-and-whatever-else induced stupor. He had friends here though, or at least acquaintances. Of course they may well have been as irritated by him as I was and might actually help me kick his ass. Thinking it through (perhaps overly so), I saw myself throwing a punch, kicking his face as he laid on the ground bloodied and bruised, and having my ass dragged off to jail by the police. I then saw myself being called to the Human Resources Department at work and being told that they could not have somebody like me representing the company so they had no choice but to let me go. Then I saw myself answering the door and being served with papers indicating that I was to be the defendant in a multi-million dollar lawsuit seeking to compensate that loathsome sonovabitch for the pain, suffering, and post traumatic stress disorder I caused him. And so I pussied-out and tried to enjoy the show to the best of my ability. Overall it was a good show, one of the best I’ve seen in a long time. If only I could have painfully murdered that motherfucker next to me without legal consequences. Then a perfect night it would have been.

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The Ginger Ale Kids

My New Gang

04/20/2014 8:00pm

Hey everybody, I just wanna let you know that I started a new clique and we’re gonna be the coolest gang in the whole school! We call ourselves the Ginger Ale Kids ‘cause we drink Ginger Ales instead of beers! A lot of the other kids think they’re cool because they drink Budweiser beers but we’re the cool ones ‘cause we drink Ginger Ales instead! Alcohol is a drug, and you can get hooked! Not us Ginger Ale Kids though! Unlike Budweiser beers, Ginger Ales have no alcohol so we Ginger Ale Kids will never get hooked! That way we can have fun riding our bikes and playing Dungeons & Dragons and going to Comic Con!

Other kids in school think they’re cool ‘cause they smoke cigarettes! Not we Ginger Ale Kids! We chew Trident sugarless gum instead! Smoking cigarettes causes cancer, and you can die! Not Trident sugarless gum though! Four out of five dentists recommend it for their patients who chew gum! That way we can have healthy teeth and not die of cancer!

A lot of the kids in school think they’re cool ‘cause they’re having sex. Not us Ginger Ale Kids! We drink Ginger Ales instead! Sex is a sin, and you can get AIDS! Not us Ginger Ale Kids though! We’ve taken a pledge to wait until marriage! The other kids can have their fun doing bad things with penises and vaginas. We Ginger Ale Kids will drink our Ginger Ales instead! That way we won’t make Jesus mad and have to go to Hell when we die of AIDS! The Ginger Ale Kids will be in Heaven where there’s rivers and oceans of Ginger Ale so we’ll never run out! Not so for the other kids! They’ll  be in Hell where there are no Ginger Ales or Budweiser beers or cigarettes to smoke or sex to have – just fire that will make them really thirsty! I bet they’ll wish they could have some Ginger Ales then! But they can’t! If only they had joined us Ginger Ale Kids instead of beating us up.

Oh well!
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Holiday Recap

Christmas 2013 – Holy Jeez!

12/29/2013  09:00pm

Well Christmas 2013 is finally over (thank goodness!) and all I can say is HOLY JEEZ WHAT A CATASTROPHE! Now holidays with my family have always been a little crazy but this one, let me tell you, surely takes the proverbial cake!

It all started around 2pm on Christmas day when I arrived at the home of my cousin Kevin and his wife Maria (it was their turn to host this year). Kevin greeted me at the door and, as usual, reeked of cheap Canadian whiskey. I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on with him but from the moment we exchanged holiday wishes it was quite clear that there was definitely something “off”. While doing the traditional catching up with the rest of my family, many of whom I had not seen since last year, I periodically looked over at him noticing that he appeared to be quite withdrawn. He sat in his chair wide-eyed, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, taking frequent sips from his highball glass. Maria went over to him a few times, briefly conversing with him. I’m not sure what they were saying as they were speaking very quietly but there appeared to be a lot of tension between them. When the smoke detector suddenly went off they ceased being so quiet.

“Goddamn it Kevin! I told you to do one fucking thing!” Maria screamed as she ran to the kitchen. “Great! The fucking ziti’s burned you asshole!”

And boy was it ever! That ziti was black as black and oozing with smoke! Holy Jeez!

“I’m sorry, I forgot,” Kevin said.

“Of course you forgot you fucking asshole! You always forget! I’m surprised you remember to take your dick out of your pants before you take a piss you stupid bastard!”

“I said I’m sorry Maria.”

“Sorry doesn’t unburn my fucking ziti asshole!”

“Calm down Maria,” said Aunt Ellie, “It’s just ziti. We’ve got plenty of other food here.”

“It’s not just ziti! It’s not!”

“I said I was sorry,” Kevin said, “What do you want me to do? You want me to run to the supermarket and see if I can find something pre-made?”

“The fucking supermarket is closed you moron! It’s Christmas Fucking Day!”

“Sorry, it was just a suggestion.”

“You can shove your fucking suggestions up your fucking ass you sonovabitch!”

Everybody was like, “Holy Jeez!”, reminding her that there were children present. Maria explained that she did not give a fuck then went on to suggest a strong correlation between Kevin’s alcohol consumption and his absentmindedness of late which she characterized as chronic. Throughout her long and loud explanation she referred to him several times as a fucking asshole and a bastard and a fucking bastard, at one point turning to him to inquire whether there was shit in his skull in place of brains.

After her long, profanity-laced tirade, Maria retreated to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. The rest of us sat down at the table, trying our best to put her muffled sobs out of our heads as we dined. I was admittedly a bit disappointed over not getting to have any ziti but, as Aunt Ellie noted, there was plenty of other food.

“Daddy, why is mommy crying,” Little Kevin, Maria’s and Kevin’s six year old son, asked.

“It’s just a woman thing son,” Kevin said, “Eat your supper before it gets cold.”

About half way through dinner Maria returned and took a seat at the table. She had calmed down and appeared to be relatively serene at that point, though she and Kevin spoke hardly a word to each other.

Shortly after dinner, when the table had been cleared and the dishwasher loaded, it was time to open presents. By then Kevin’s and Maria’s earlier shouting match seemed like a faded memory which had since been supplanted by the joy of the season and the sound of gifts being unwrapped. Somewhere in there Little Kevin decided to show everybody how adorable he was by saying, “I saw mommy kissin’ Santa Claus.”

“You did?” asked Grandpa.

“Yeah,” Little Kevin said, “underneath the mistletoe last night!”

“Oh my!” Grandpa said, “Don’t let your daddy hear about that one!”

At that point, I looked over at Kevin who was looking really mad, shaking his head back and forth and muttering something under his breath. He stormed off then came back a minute or so later with his .357 in hand. “You fucking whore!” he shouted, pointing the barrel at Maria. Before anyone could say or do anything he shot her right in the face and she fell back.

We were all like, “Holy Jeez!”

“Mommy!” Little Kevin screamed.

“What the fuck Kevin!” I said, momentarily forgetting there were kids around.

Kevin surveyed the room, taking note of what he had just done, then put the barrel of the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Holy Jeez times two! There was blood and brains everywhere! It was like a big lasagna exploded all over the living room, only much more disgusting! It really killed my appetite for dessert I tell ya!

Needless to say the rest of the night was quite a hassle with the paramedics and the medical examiner showing up to do their thing and the police keeping us there half the night to question us one-by-one. I just wanted to go home and go to bed but realizing that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, I pulled out my phone and watched pornos until the battery ran out of juice.

“Say Little Kevin, you wouldn’t happen to know where your mommy or daddy’s phone charger is kept, would you?” I asked.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Uncle Abe said, “Can’t you see the kid is shaken?”

“Sorry, it’s just that my phone is dead. Like Kevin dead,” I said.

Anyway, there ended-up being a big what-to-do over Little Kevin and the police weren’t going to let any of us leave until we could assure them that someone would be taking care of him. My sister and her husband finally volunteered to take him home, thank goodness! I’m sure glad I didn’t get stuck with him. I don’t do well with kids to begin with, let alone one that keeps waking up in the middle of the night screaming and crying hysterically.

Believe it or not, Maria didn’t actually die. They’ve got her all hooked up to machines to keep her eating and breathing and all that other stuff. Her family is deliberating over whether or not to Terry Schiavo her. Honestly, I don’t know why they’re waiting, it ain’t like she’s gonna get any better. I mean Holy Jeez, the girl ain’t got no more brains! Believe me, I know, I watched them fly out the back of her head and hit the wall behind her!

Family – what can you do?

Here’s hoping next Christmas will be less chaotic!

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The Worst Gift

Scratch Tickets –  A Christmas Rant

12/22/2013  06:00pm

Is there any shittier a gift one can get for the holidays than a pack of scratch tickets? I mean really. A certain person I know is fond of giving everyone ten dollars worth of scratch tickets each Christmas. It’s the thought that counts and all but the thought here sucks every bit as much as the gift. I once actually proposed that this person perhaps consider just giving me ten dollars going forward. “Yeah but then you’d only have ten bucks,” he replied, “This way you might end up with ten thousand dollars or a hundred thousand or even a million.”

But I won’t. Well, I can’t say for sure but statistically my asshole is more likely to teach itself to talk than me winning any significant amount of cash. Yet every year there he is again giving everyone those fucking scratch tickets. I think the most I ever saw anybody win was forty bucks. One person won a nominal sum and everybody else got worthless pieces of cardboard  – Merry Fucking Christmas. Personally I would rather get nothing than a scratch ticket. Of course getting a scratch ticket usually amounts to getting nothing, though I would argue it’s actually worse. It’s an insult really, the ultimate “fuck you”. It says “I want to give you nothing for Christmas but I want to give you nothing so much that I’m actually going to spend money to create the illusion you’ve gotten something knowing that, in the end, you will almost certainly end up with nothing.”

In case you haven’t notice yet, I really hate scratch tickets. And not just at Christmas! I can’t tell you how many times I’ve ended up consuming a large 7-11 coffee before I got to the register to pay for it because some elderly fuck-face was in front of me requesting four Big Moneys, two Pot O’Lucks,  Five Double Your Lucks, half a dozen Golden Tickets, and three Bucks Deluxes which he or she then scratched off while still standing in line. Elderly fuck-faces usually have all the luck when it comes to winning the small prizes so he or she usually wins like twenty dollars and four free tickets which he/she  then exchanges for four Lucky Lemons, five Jumbo Cash Deluxes, two Golden Opportunities and a Max-A-Millions. This is  followed by another session of scratching at the goddamn counter and at least another five to seven minute delay before I can pay for my fucking coffee which is now aggressively exerting its pressure on the inner walls of my bladder.

But enough of this rant. It’s the holidays for fuck’s sake! Peace on earth and goodwill and all that shit.

And go fuck your mothers!

That is all.

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Conversations with Idiots

You Are What You Eat

12/14/2013  06:00pm

“Hey, hey” the idiot says, “tell me I’m a pussy.”

“What?” I say with a perplexed look. “Why?”

“Just do it.”

“No. Why would you want me to call you a pussy?”

“Just do it, it will be funny.”

“I’m pretty sure it won’t be.”

“Come on now, just call me a pussy.”

Just wanting him to get out of my face I break down and say it. “You’re a pussy.”

“You are what eat,” he says, breaking into laughter and elbowing me in the ribs, “Get it?”

“Oh I get it.”

“Then why aren’t you laughing?” says the idiot.

“Because it’s not funny.”

“Sure it’s funny. You are what you eat. Remember those PSAs from back when we were kids?” he then begins singing “You are what you eat from your head down to your feet –.”

“Um, I gotta go.”

“What? You don’t think that’s funny? Do you have any sense of humor.”

“Yes, that’s just not humorous.”

“You don’t eat pussy or something?”

“Whether or not I do is irrelevant to the fact that it’s not funny.”

Just then Stacey MacDonald, the chubby blonde with the snorting laugh, comes over.

“Hey Stacey,” the idiot says, “tell me I’m a pussy.”

“You’re a pussy Ted,” she says.

“Well you are what you eat,” idiot says, his words deteriorating into an obnoxious laugh.

An explosion of air bursts through Stacey’s nasal cavity, as if she were passing wind through her nostrils, and she begins laughing hysterically. “O-M-G !” she says, “You are so raunchy!” She turns to me, “Keep the kids in the other room when this guy’s around! He is sooooo funny! Dontchya think?”

“No,” I say.

“Oh my God, he’s hilarious,” she then turns back to idiot, “You should be a comedian. Have you ever thought about doing an open mic night?”

“I have but apparently not everybody thinks I’m funny,” idiot says.

“You really don’t think that joke was funny?” Stacey says to me

“Nope,” I say.

“Don’t you get it? He’s a ‘p-u-s-s-y’ cuz he is what he eats,” she says, spelling rather than saying the word because she’s a lady and all. “He likes to eat you-know-what and because you are what you eat that makes him a –“.

“I get it,” I say. “Not my type of humor.”

“Oh, look at Mr. Highbrow over there,” idiot says.

“I’m no Mr. Highbrow. I just like my humor to be funny.”

“Oh you wouldn’t know funny if it bit you on the ass,” Stacey says.

“Don’t you mean ‘a-s-s’, “ I say.

“Huh?” she says.

“Exactly!” I say,

Idiot then says “I once ate a Chinese girl’s pussy. Yeah, I was hungry half an hour later.”

Stacey cracks up and says “You’re so bad!”

“It’s funny cuz it’s true,” idiot says.

Putting aside the racist nature of his joke I feel compelled to point out the inconsistency of his follow-up . “Didn’t you mean to say half an hour later you weren’t Chinese anymore?”

“Huh?” idiot says.

“What?” Stacey says with a confused and disgusted look.

“Don’t quit your day job there SKANLYN. Leave the joke telling to the funny guys,” idiot says.

 

Worst U.S. Cities

SKANLYN’s Top Ten

Worst Cities in America

12/04/2013 08:00am

Having had the opportunity to travel all around this great nation, I’ve gotten the chance to visit a lot of great places. I’ve also gotten the chance to visit a lot of terrible places. Since there’s no fun in writing or reading about the positive, I present to you my top ten WORST cities in the United States.

Will your city be #1???

#10. Seattle, Washington

How can you possibly hate a city that’s got a monorail? Take a trip to Seattle you’ll find out exactly how!

In all fairness Seattle might well be on my list of best cities if it wasn’t for their godawful weather. Yeah, there’s also that thoroughly irritating population of scruffy, infrequently bathed, wool hat and flannel shirt wearing stoners who seem to comprise the wait staff everywhere you dine but they’re easily ignored, unlike the nearly constant drizzle and grey clouds.  Seattle is also fairly chilly year round –  not quite cold enough to freeze your ass off, just cold enough to make you perpetually uncomfortable. In spite of its abhorrent climate, however, there is actually a lot worth seeing and doing there.

Seattle’s most well known attraction is of course the Space Needle. Riding the elevator to the top will set you back twenty bucks but once up there you can step outside onto the circular balcony and look out into the opaque grey mist. At first I questioned who in their right mind thought it would be a good idea to build an observation tower in a place where constant fog and cloud cover limit the visibility to about three feet. After considering the lines of people willing to pay the significantly more than nominal fee to go up there I could only surmise a real genius – that’s who!

Pike’s Place, while not quite as iconic as the Space Needle, more closely represents what I consider to be the essence of Seattle. That is, a feeling of utter “yuck”. If you’ve been there then you know exactly what I mean. Stepping into the marketplace, your clothes wet from the cold rain outside, you immediately and profusely begin to perspire (it’s hot as Hell in there). As the warm sweat from your flesh soaks into your already soggy attire, you find yourself enveloped in a sensation of stickiness and dampness. It is this feeling of “yuck” that I most closely associate with Seattle.

While it does rightfully earn its place on my list, Seattle does have significantly more positive attributes than the other nine cities about which I have written. Aesthetically it’s beautiful – the greenest grass, trees, and other plant life you’ve ever seen, a downtown that is immaculately clean. There’s also a plethora of museums, great restaurants, and nightlife. That’s all eclipsed, however, by the lack of sunlight, a feeling of general malaise that overcomes you and does not go away until you leave, and the air of melancholy that pervades every corner of the city. Combine all that with the previous mentioned “yuck” and it’s no wonder Seattle has the highest suicide rate of any major U.S. city.

#09. San Francisco, California

Like Seattle, San Francisco is cold and wet though the sun does tend to shine there more often.  That only tends to illuminate the city’s imperfections though.

Known for its mostly harmless population of Asians and homosexuals, there is also a fairly significant thug element in San Francisco that makes you feel generally unsafe. Wander slightly away from Union Square and find yourself lost in a neighborhood known as “The Tenderloin” and you will immediately sense the imminent danger. Filthy hippies and homeless people are also quite abundant throughout the city. While the panhandlers may not be quite as aggressive as say Atlanta (which, unlike San Francisco, has enough positive attributes to outweigh its homeless problem), they certainly bring down any efforts to gentrify this big dirty city that somehow manages to command a ridiculously high cost of living.

As in Borat’s country, in San Francisco there is problem and that problem is transport (well one of them anyway). The city’s extreme urban density causes quite a traffic nightmare, making commuting to work by car highly impractical for most. Public transportation is therefore of the utmost necessity, a factor heavily exploited by the union representing employees of the BART, the nation’s most unreliable public transit system. Each night, they force the city’s working population to stay up late to find out whether they will be allowing the trains to run in the morning or whether they will again be holding the city for ransom. They make their decision sometime after midnight with many commuters having to hit the road shortly thereafter in order to make it to the office on time (a necessity for those working a non-union job). I’m told that, in addition to a pay increase, more vacation time, and the flexibility for employees to show up at work whenever they feel like it, their latest assortment of unreasonable demands includes a mandate legally compelling all Bay Area McDonald’s to serve Shamrock Shakes year round (Uncle O’Grimacey we implore your tasty mint flavored mercy!).

The transit union of course isn’t the only labor organization to inflict their disruptive shenanigans on the City by the Bay. I was once unfortunate enough to be in town when one of the local hotel unions was striking. I remember disgruntled workers pacing the sidewalk, shouting into megaphones, and beating on empty paint buckets all night, making enough of a racket to disturb me twelve floors above street level. Police stood at the scene keeping a watchful eye and making sure that no patrons had the unreasonable expectation of a good night’s sleep, lest they attempt to enforce the apparently non-existent ordinance against disturbing the peace with their fists. And yet they say the South is ass-backwards! Go figure.

#08. Cincinnati, Ohio

When one thinks of Cincinnati, names like Dr. Johnny Fever, Les Nessman (winner of five Buckeye Newshawk awards!), and Venus Flytrap probably come to mind. I know they did for me so I found myself quite choked-up my first day in town when I came upon the Tyler Davis Fountain, featured prominently during the opening credits of the classic television series WKRP in Cincinnati. As I stood there taking it in, a shaggy looking fella stumbled past me, stopped dead in his tracks about five feet in front, and proceeded to vomit onto the plaza.  After seeing a little more of the city I had similar sentiments.

There are a lot of things to dislike about Cincinnati. It’s ugly, unsafe, and the air is poison. Most of all though, it’s boring. When the main selling point of a major American metropolis is its close proximity to Newport, Kentucky, a town of three square miles that boasts an aquarium and a really old post office, you know they’ve got problems. It also doesn’t help tourism efforts when business travelers, such as me, arrive in town a day early to do a little exploring only to find that everything’s closed on Sunday. This included the restaurant in my hotel. I thus found myself wandering downtown for more than an hour looking for someplace that could supply me with sustenance. Fortunately I stumbled upon a charming little bistro called Wendy’s that happened to be open. After enjoying some casual dining, including a unique dessert specialty of theirs called a “Frosty”,  I decided to check out Cincinnati’s world famous nightlife, only to find there is none. Well, I did come across a blind hobo on a street corner singing Al Green tunes, if that counts. Having no change on me to deposit into his coffee can, however, I didn’t feel right staying for his full performance so I retired to my hotel room where I turned on the local news and learned about the variety of drive-by shootings, armed robberies, and assorted other crimes that were committed around town earlier in the day.

#07. Wichita, Kansas

If you’ve never been to Kansas’ largest city, type “Downtown Wichita” into Google Images. Now imagine this – it’s even less exciting than it looks!

Wichita can be summed up in two words: it sucks! There is absolutely nothing to see or do here. A city of nearly 400,000 people yet completely void of any human progress since its founding in 1863, the level of apathy among the residents of this urban vacuum is absolutely baffling. For God’s sake build something people! Hell, give a couple plots of that land back to those natives from whom you stole it so they can build a fucking Casino or something!

I’d go on ranting about all the things I hate about Wichita but there would actually have to be things there for me to hate and a lack of things is precisely what puts Wichita on this list.

#06. Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

With a skyline consisting of one building, it almost seems like an ironic joke that the word “City” would make its way into the name of Oklahoma’s capital. Well okay, there’s actually more than one building but only one is tall enough to be seen from a distance so I’m not counting the others as part of a “skyline”. Either way, if you’re looking for a big city experience, you won’t find it here. On the other hand, if you’re looking for an inner-city experience, da hoodz of OKC rank right up there with some of the best from New York, Los Angeles, and Miami – complete with an active presence from all major street gangs as well as two Mexican drug cartels.

If you’re not looking to score crack or engage in other criminal activity, you’re just unfortunate enough to have to spend some time in Oklahoma City, then the area known as “Bricktown” provides the closest facsimile to the type of entertainment district one might find in a real city (though “closest” is still a few hundred thousand or more miles away). A piss-poor imitation of the San Antonio Riverwalk, Bricktown doesn’t quite capture the charm of its counterpart in the Alamo City. While the Riverwalk stretches for miles along the San Antonio River, celebrating the city’s rich Tejano culture with Mariachi bands, Mexican folk dancers, and hundreds of unique shops and restaurants, Bricktown celebrates OKC’s culture of blandness with bricks (plain red ones) and a handful of unremarkable chain restaurants, all situated along a canal that barely stretches the length of an arena football field. But if you’re bored and hungry, you generally won’t find anything better in this town. That is unless you happen to be there in September when the State Fair is in session. For you more cosmopolitan types, a state fair is where obese people (such as every single resident of Oklahoma City) go to eat chocolate covered bacon and ride the Ferris wheel. There’s also pig judging contests (the animal of the genus sus that is, not a female resident of Oklahoma City), competitive arm wrestling, and live music from people that used to be famous. Regarding the latter,  I walked by a stage where none-other than Eddie Money was performing “Take Me Home Tonight” to a crowd of about fifteen people. Ronnie Spector, who apparently hasn’t fallen on as hard times, was conspicuously absent.

#05. Montgomery, Alabama

On the roads and highways in and around Montgomery is a series of signs reading “Keep Alabama Beautiful”. If their capital city is any indication of what the rest of the state is like then it’s a little too late for that.

Montgomery is “The Asylum” of American cities. The Asylum is of course the film studio that makes those really bad sci-fi movies like Mega Shark vs Giant Octopus, 500 MPH Storm, and Sharknado – films so terrible that they’re actually fun to watch. And such is Montgomery, AL – a city so inconceivably awful that it’s actually fun to visit (though you sure as hell wouldn’t want to live there). From the cratered streets that are sure to destroy your shocks and struts in as little as five miles to the rows of semi-demolished (and sometimes burned-out) houses to the confederate flags that proudly adorn every front porch and dirty pick-up truck you see to the stench of utter poverty that perfumes the city, Montgomery manages to reflect every stereotype of the deep South with 100% accuracy.

One probably can’t expect too much from a city whose economy is driven by the bail bond industry (or so it would seem from all the billboards around town targeting the recently arrested) so it goes without saying that Montgomery’s city center is clearly not the place of neon lights and places that stay open all night that Petula Clark had in mind when she sang about going downtown. There’s no “music of the traffic” or any “rhythm of a gentle bossa nova”, just silence punctuated by the occasional howl of the wind. I walked several blocks without encountering another living soul. The buildings, sidewalks, paved streets, traffic lights, and power lines all seemed to suggest that people had been there at one time, probably not too long ago, but at some point they all just vanished. It brought to mind an old Twilight Zone episode in which a man and woman awake in an unfamiliar house after a night of heavy drinking. Finding no one at home, they wander outside and find themselves in a deserted town seemingly void of any other human beings though they keep hearing the laugh of an unseen child. At the end of the episode it’s revealed that they’re being kept as pets by a little girl giantess and that they had been wandering around a miniature town built for a model train. While there was no such dramatic revelation for me, just a really boring walk around town, the eerie vacancy of downtown Montgomery thoroughly creeped me out and left me with a strong desire to be around other living things, even if they weren’t human. I thus found my way to the Montgomery City Zoo, a grungy 40 acre wildlife park where the scent of exotic animals and monkey shit fills the air.

Things didn’t go exactly as planned at the Zoo and I didn’t get to see nearly as much of it as I had hoped due to getting there late in the afternoon and an unfortunate train derailment. There was also that loser in front of me at the ticket booth who seemed to take forever counting out enough change to cover admission for him and his white trash family. After finally getting through the gate I got to see a giraffe, a gator, some birds and a parade of really dirty elephants (not sure if that was mud or shit covering them). It was then that I thought it would be a good idea to hop aboard the train for a leisurely ride around the perimeter of the zoo. About half way into the ride there was a terrible noise followed by a thunderous thumping then, I shit you not, the rear two cars came off the fucking track. This set into motion a comedy of errors that began with the nervous lady engineer stopping the train and handing all of us accident forms to fill out followed by a bumbling maintenance man making several failed attempts to lift the derailed cars back onto the track with a bulldozer of all things. Somewhere in there the lightning began to flash as thunder clouds burst open sending heavy rain pouring down on all of us. It was during that violent storm that Maintenance Man Mike finally came to the conclusion that the bulldozer thing wasn’t going to work so he decided to just disconnect the rear to cars and have the passengers who were seated therein find new seats for the ride back to the station. Upon arriving back at the train depot I decided to call it a day in light of my wet clothes and the continuing inclement weather.

Due to the train incident I was unfortunately unable to make it to the Hank Williams Museum as planned. I really had hoped to get my picture taken in the back seat of the death car. That is, the blue 1952 Cadillac in which ol’ Hank died of heart failure while being chauffeured to a gig on New Year’s Day in 1953, proudly on display as part of the museum’s permanent collection. Oh well, maybe next time. The day was not entirely a loss though as I did manage to teach that big blue parrot at the zoo to say “motherfucker”. I only wish I could have been there the first time he repeated himself in front of a pack of school children on a field trip.

#04. Hartford, Connecticut

I recall years ago hearing a radio interview with some new age heretic who claimed to have been given a vision of Hell by an angel of some sort. He described not the fire and brimstone we’ve all come to know but rather a lonely place completely lacking in hope, love, and the presence of God – a land of overwhelming emptiness and despair. In retrospect I can say with confidence that this man describes not Hell. This man describes Hartford, the most depressing city that’s not in Pennsylvania.

Branded as the Insurance Capital of America (way to attract them tourist dollars!), Hartford has a less- than-booming downtown area where you see few, if any, people on the streets. The city blocks, for the most part, are populated only by a collection of architecturally unimpressive office buildings which I can only imagine to be occupied by very unhappy people working dead-end jobs with long hours and low pay. If you’re looking for something to do then you’re shit out of luck. I suppose you could visit the Harriet Beecher Stowe house (if you like that sort of thing) but other than that, being sad is the only other form of recreation you will find in Hartford.

#03. Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

This list pretty much could have been comprised entirely of cities in Pennsylvania, the most dreary, miserable, depressing state in the entire the Union. In the interest of diversity though, I’ve chosen to limit myself to one city in this horrible commonwealth. While the filthy cesspool known as Philadelphia or the poor man’s Detroit (aka Pittsburgh) would have been decent choices for any list of this type, I’ve opted for the state’s wretched capital which I feel best represents the utter despair you feel when you’re in Pennsylvania.  

Death and decay are the words that most prominently come to mind as I look to describe Harrisburg, a city that looks remarkably like the type of post atomic landscape you might see in sci-fi movie. A frozen river covered with polluted grey snow runs through town. Plumes of black smoke continually rise into the air from decrepit old mills and coal plants. A dim sun makes an increasing failing attempt to penetrate the carcinogenic tint around the city. And bitter cold perfectly mimics the effects of nuclear winter. If anyone questions why we must keep nuclear weapons out of the hands of rogue nations, they need only come to Harrisburg for a preview of what it might be like if we don’t. The primitive agrarian communities of the Amish in nearby Dutch country offer a glimpse of what it might be like a millennium or so down the road if society were to find the muster to start over again.

To be fair, I haven’t been to Harrisburg during the spring or summer months but I can’t imagine it’s any less depressing and I suspect that the trees stay bare year round and that the color green is perennially absent from the flat brown grass in this city of living death. 

#02. St. Louis, Missouri

If you like being raped, shot, having your car stolen, and having your house burned down then you’ll love St. Louis! If not, then maybe not so much. Exceeding the national average multi-fold with its ridiculously high rates of sexual assaults, gun crimes, auto-theft, and arson, St. Louis is a top contender every year for the title of Most Dangerous City in America. Though long-time rivals Camden, NJ and Detroit have taken the top spot more often, St. Louis still has a respectable number of wins under its belt.

A high crime rate is of course a bad thing for any municipality but it doesn’t necessarily make a city a bad city. People certainly didn’t flee or stop visiting New York and DC back in the 70’s and 80’s and Chicago is still bound to show up near the top of any “Best City” list despite its 500+ homicides over the last year. Hell, even Detroit has enough charm to keep itself off this list. Of course those cities, unlike St. Louis, actually have something other than crime to offer. On the other hand, if you ain’t being robbed, raped, murdered, or carjacked (or some combination thereof), you just ain’t experiencing St. Louis. Crime is literally all they have. Well, there’s also that big stupid piece of bent steel that rises over the skyline as a peculiar monument to western expansion.

Yes, I suppose if I am talking about St. Louis I am obligated to mention the Gateway Arch – the world’s oddest and most impractically shaped observation tower (it’s also perhaps the world’s most unnecessary one, overlooking a city that’s best left unobserved). Many people to whom I’ve spoken were actually surprised to learn that the Arch is not a mere metallic sculpture and that you can actually go inside it. Of course the question is then, why would you want to go inside it? The simple answer is that, other than being the victim of a violent crime, there’s just nothing else to do in St. Louis. And so  I paid the ten dollars to take the “tram” ride up to the observatory. This so-called “tram”, as they call it, is actually a series of very claustrophobic pod-like gondolas on a semi-vertical chain that slowly pulls you to the top. One boards with six or so other people making things quite tight (especially so with the thick winter coats everyone was wearing on the frigid October day I visited). With only the most microscopic personal space between passengers and low ceilings that force you to hunch forward, the long, uncomfortable, and noisy ride to the top is torturous to say the least. When the tram finally comes to a stop, you exit to a steep upward staircase (handicapped persons are requested to please go fuck themselves), at the top of which is the very small, very narrow, and very crowded observation deck. On each side is a series of tiny windows projecting downward at a very non-ergonomic angle that makes looking out a window far more strenuous than you could ever imagine it would be. If you care to do so, however, you will see some quite majestic views. To the East is the Mississippi Riviera in all its flowing diarrhea brown glory, the permanently docked riverboat casinos establishing it as a sort of Monte Carlo for trailer trash. To the West is a spectacular bird’s eye view of the cityscape. On a clear day you can actually see beyond the studio backlot façade of downtown to the real St. Louis – a place of dilapidated houses and plywood-boarded store-fronts, a land where bullets swarm through the air like mosquitoes on a humid summer night and where chalk outlines turn the sidewalks into a virtual portrait gallery memorializing the latest casualties of the ongoing turf war between the Boys of Destruction and the Horseshoe Posse. There is a certain amount of peace you feel while you’re up there though. After all, it is probably the safest place in this war zone of a city even with the wind nearly blowing it over at times, the constant threat of shifting tectonic plates, and the possibility of an unannounced tornado coming along and tearing it to pieces.

Intensely dangerous yet thoroughly unexciting – St. Louis is a land of contradictory extremes. Its climate of brutally hot summers and bitterly cold winters seems only fitting for a city that gives residents and visitors alike the worst of both worlds in every respect.

And the most horrible city in the United States of America is  .  .  .  .   .

#01. Boston, Massachusetts

Up in that far northeastern corner of the country known as “New England” is the land of filth and revulsion they call “Beantown”, a city about which I have so many bad things to say that I don’t even know where to begin. From the grimy cityscape of trash littered streets; to the permanently gridlocked roads; to the unsanitary public transit system with its urine soiled subway trains (some friendly advice if you’ve never ridden the “T” – never let your ass make contact with those seats!); to the continuous aural collage of jack hammers, police sirens, and angry car horns; to the crazy lice-infested homeless people that yell obscenities at you as you walk streets; to the ten months of non-stop bitter cold – yes, Boston has everything you would never want in a city that you visit, much less call home (which I unfortunately did during my college years and for a number of years after). Of all the bad things one can point to when discussing Boston, however, it’s perhaps the awful people that ultimately make this hell hole such a terrible place.

Ah, the Bostonian (douchebageous maximus), an angry, racist, vulgar, and excessively ignorant creature if ever there was one!  The male of the species is instantly recognizable by his backwards Celtics cap, sleeveless white t-shirt (sometimes referred to as a “wife beater”), and the humble and respectful manner in which he addresses his fellow man as “ya fuckin’ qweer” and “ya fuckin’ cawksucka”. When he’s not calling the people around him derogatory names for homosexuals, dropping the n-word in public, or threatening the life of those who say something critical of his union, he can frequently be heard chanting “Yankess Suck”. Those words always seemed rather ironic to me given that the Red Sox had not won a World Series since 1918 at the time I lived there, as compared to the Yankees who won twenty six between then and when the Sox finally broke their so-called Bambino curse in 2004. But I digress.

Female Bostonians are of course known for their exceptionally tacky attire, reminiscent of the 1985-era Madonna, and the tall mass of hair that extends high above their heads, adding as much as six inches to their height. Every twelve to fifteen minutes they can be seen reaching into their purse (or “pawk-a-book”, as they call it) to retrieve a large aerosol can from which they release a cloud of noxious gas called “AquaNet”, a compound most irritating to the eyes, nose, and throat of everyone within a fifty foot radius. While generally not prone to the ignorant sports chants of her male counterpart, the female Bostonian can often be heard cursing into her cell phone, usually at her mother whose intelligence she often questions (“What are ya fuckin’ stupid ma?!”). While equally as racist as her male counterpart, she does enjoy the sexual prowess of African American men who are generally able to satisfy much more fully than that punily equipped Irish boy from her neighborhood in “Southie” whom she officially dates.

Those who have never been to the self-proclaimed “Hub of the Universe” are probably questioning the authenticity of my description of Boston and its wretched inhabitants.  After all, how could the city that gave us JFK (and his brothers Bobby and Teddy) and where Martin Luther King Jr. earned his PhD possibly be racist? How could a town with so many prominent institutions of higher learning be so full of ignorant and uneducated people? And how could a city that always looks so nice on TV and in the movies be as filthy and rundown as I say it is? All fair points which I shall address one-by-one.

The reality is that the Kennedys, despite their public image, have long kept themselves tucked away from the non-white population. For years they lived behind the walls of a highly guarded compound located nearly two hours from the city in a place called Cape Cod where you are more likely to encounter a Dodo bird than a person of color. As for Dr. King (or “Martha Lewtha King”, as Down Syndrome-afflicted Mayor Thomas M. Menino called him at the 2012 DNC), he got the hell out of there as soon as he delivered his dissertation and headed back to the more racially tolerant Alabama of the 1950’s.

Yes, it is true that Boston is home to some of the most prestigious colleges and universities in the world – Harvard, MIT, Tufts, Boston College, Boston University, Emerson College, Berklee College of Music, all fine institutions and all mostly populated by foreign and out of state students. Native Bostonians rarely have an education beyond fifth grade, many having been seduced into dropping out of school by the four dollars an hour they could earn by working “under the table” on a construction site. Upon turning eighteen, many then find their way to employment with the City which is strong-armed by the local unions into paying them six figure salaries for menial minimum labor jobs, thus eliminating any need for an education.

I probably don’t have to tell you that most of what you see on TV and in the movies is pure fiction. However, we all saw quite a bit of Boston earlier this year during the very real news coverage of the Marathon bombing and its aftermath. That bombing of course took place near the finish line in a highly unrepresentative neighborhood called the “Back Bay”, which is also what you generally see on TV and in the movies. Unlike the garbage dump that comprises the rest of the city, the Back Bay is kept tidy and beautified by its large gay population. God may hate those people but there are no better neighbors to have if you want to keep your property values up. Nonetheless they are confined to this small area due to safety concerns as male Bostonians, from other parts of the city, have a penchant for beating them up pursuant to the scientific theory that “if you know a guy’s a fag and you don’t kick his ass then that makes you a fag.” Very logically they therefore sacrifice a clean, kept neighborhood in order to avoid having to perform fellatio on, or accept anal sex from, another man.

Despite my disdain for Boston and Bostonians, I did briefly find myself sympathizing with the people among whom I spent several years living when I initially heard of the Marathon bombing. Upon seeing the interviews with them in the media and hearing that despicable accent again, however, I immediately lost every ounce of compassion as my mind filled with memories of those dreadful souls and the sheer torture I endured living with them. Yes, what happened at the 2013 Boston Marathon was absolutely tragic and I would hope to never see another terrorist attack on American soil ever again. In the very unfortunate event it were to happen, however, one has to wonder if it would be all bad if Boston were blown to smithereens and the ground irradiated so that no one or nothing could ever live there again.

Congratulations Boston – you are the worst city in America!

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THE FLIP SIDE – SKANLYN’s Top Ten BEST Cities in America – 10) Virginia Beach, VA; 09) Myrtle Beach, SC; 08) Charleston, SC; 07) Savannah, GA; 06) Dallas, TX; 05) Atlanta, GA; 04) Washington DC; 03) San Antonio, TX; 02) Miami, FL; 01) Chicago, IL

The New Guy at Work

CORRECTIVE LENSES

08/06/2013 11:00pm

So a few weeks ago Boss Billy mentioned he hired somebody new who just started this past Monday. Me and Jimmy finally got to meet him today and all I can say is “Boy! What a loser!” Motherfucker actually comes to work wearing glasses. Can you believe that? And his first week on the job when he should be tryna make a good impression! Nobody likes dudes who wear fucking glasses. I mean it can be kinda sexy with bitches cuz you can cum all over the lenses and stuff but ain’t no excuse for a man to wear glasses unless he’s a fucking faggot or something. Anyway, we saw the goggle-eyed little fruit over there in the copy room this afternoon and went to go introduce ourselves.

“Hey there,” I said, “I’m SKANNY and this is my boi Jimmy.”

“Ah, nice to meet you fellas,” he said all faggoty, “I’m Dale.”

“Dale?!” I said, “That’s kinda a girl’s name ain’t it?”

“Well actually it’s a unisex name. You know like Terry or Dana or Kelly.”

“Unisex?” said Jimmy, “What’s that mean, like you’re one of them transgendervestites or some shit like that?”

“Ah, no, at least not the last time I looked, ha-ha,” he said with a little faggot laugh. Then he goes on to tell us “I’m just your average red-blooded American male.”

“So what’s up with the glasses?” I asked him.

“I’m sorry, what do you mean what’s up with them?”

“Why the fuck you wearing them?” I asked.

“They’re corrective lenses. I have myopia.”

“What the fuck is myopia? That one of them faggot diseases like The Hiv or something?” I asked the four eyed fuck.

“Uh, no. It’s the term for what’s more commonly known as ‘nearsightedness’. I have trouble seeing at a distance. The actual condition is called myopia though.”

“I see. So that’s like the scientific term,” I said.

“Well yes, if you will,” the four eyed fuck said.

“Oh, so you’re a Mr. Science,” said Jimmy.

“Well I don’t know if I’d call myself a Mr. Science but I’ve always found science fascinating. Back when I was in school it was always my favorite class.”

“Got good grades in science I bet, didn’t ya?” I said.

“As a matter of fact I did. Always straight A’s when it came to science,” he said.

“You know, when I went to school the kids who did good in science were usually faggots. Are you a faggot?” I asked him.

“Uh, no. Actually  I’m married to a beautiful wife with two beautiful children.”

“Married, huh? That wife of yours have a dick?” I asked.

“No, I can honestly say she does not.”

“I don’t know about the rest of ‘em around here,” Jimmy told him, “but we’re true-blooded Americans. Red, white, and blue all the way. We believe marriage should be between one man and one woman, not some faggot and a fucked-up freak of nature with titties and a dick.”

“Well my wife is certainly no freak of nature and, I assure you, she has only female reproductive organs.”

“Much to your chagrin I bet, faggot,” I said.

“No, I’m happy with her just the way she is,” said the four eyed faggot.

“Yeah, sure ya is,” said Jimmy, “I bet you wish she had a big monster dick.”

“Yeah,” I concurred with Jimmy, “You like dicks, big monster dicks, dontchya.”

“Um, well I certainly appreciate my own but no, not really into that sort of thing.”

“Do those glasses help you see dicks better?” I asked.

“Well, I suppose if that’s what I was looking at they would.”

“See, I knew it,” said Jimmy, “He’s a faggot.”

“Yeah,” I said then pulled his glasses off his face.

“Hey now, gimme those back,” he said.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, “You got some dicks to suck and you’re afraid you won’t be able to find them without your faggot glasses.”

“Yeah, I bet that’s what it is,” said Jimmy.

I then bent the glasses at the nose part, snapping them in two, and threw them to the floor. “Ooops!” I said.

Jimmy started to laugh, “How ya gonna see them dicks now?” he asked.

“I guess he’ll just have to go around poking his beak everywhere ‘til he finds one to suck on, like a blind bird tryna find a worm,” I said.

“He’s such a faggot,” Jimmy said then we both started punching him in the stomach, face, and balls. Jimmy got him good with a left hook that sent him straight to the floor. We then started kicking him and stomping on him. He was all tryna  protect himself with his arms and legs but having that faggot disease, tapioca or whatever the fuck he called it, he couldn’t see well enough to block our kicks.

“Stop! Stop!” he pleaded.

At that point, Jimmy picked up the laser printer and dropped it right on his fucking head. That motherfucker was out cold after that let me tell ya! There was all blood coming out of his nose and from around his eye and shit. That’s when Boss Billy came over. At first we were like “Aw shit!” cuz we thought we’d be in trouble or something but it was just the opposite.

“Wow! You boys really did a number on this four eyed fuck face!” said Boss Billy.

“Well, you know,” I said, kind of blushing cuz I’m a modest guy.

Jimmy, who ain’t quite so modest, said. “Yeah, we fucked him up good!”

“Great team work guys!”

“Gee thanks,” I said, “When we first saw you coming over here I was thinking we should split cuz you’d be all mad and shit.”

“No, no,” said Boss Billy, “I fucking hate that eyeglasses wearing piece of homo dog shit. I didn’t wanna hire him but my boss made me. Said he was ‘the most qualified guy for the job’. I was like, ‘Yeah but he wears glasses which makes him a faggot and a fucking asshole and probably a kid toucher too’ but he was all like ‘hire him anyway’ so I hadda. Anyway, good work boys and to show you how much I appreciate your efforts, I’m gonna give you each a 50% raise effective tomorrow.”

“Wow! Thanks Boss Billy,” I said.

“Yeah, thank you Sir,” said Jimmy, all tryna kiss his ass by calling him Sir.

“Only thing is,” said Boss Billy, “The laser printer. That might be a problem. Which one of you guys broke that.”

I could see Jimmy was real nervous but he’s an honest guy so he came right out with the truth. “It was me Sir. I did it. Sorry.”

“That’s gonna have to be replaced,” Boss Billy said, “and I am gonna have to deduct the cost from your pay.”

“Man!” said Jimmy.

“But don’t worry,” said Boss Billy, “I’ll just give you a bonus to offset it.”

“Sweet!” said Billy.

Just then Gina and Stacy from HR came over and were like “Hey guys!” and we were like “Hey girls!”

“It was soooo sexy watching you beat-up that fucking asshole with the glasses. He’s such a faggot,” said Gina.

“Yeah, it got me so wet watching it,” said Stacy. She then pulled up her skirt to show us her white panties which were so soaked you could see right through them, her crease and everything.

“You know boys,” said Gina, “I live just around the corner. How ‘bout at lunchtime we head over to my place so we can suck your dicks and let you fuck us in our pussies and stuff.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said.

“You be good to these guys,” said Boss Billy, “And hell, why wait until lunch? I’m giving you all the rest of the day off so you can suck and fuck all day long!”

And that’s exactly what we did! It was the bestest day ever!

My Wonder Years (Ep. 03)

Mr. McLaughlin

(originally published on Xanga February 25, 2013)

As I believe I’ve mentioned before, I was quite the cowering mess of a child. The word for kids like me back then was “faggot” (that was back in the days when it meant “shy and timid” rather than dudes who like penises instead of vaginas).  While I pretty much feared everyone, I had a particular aversion to authority figures. Parents (mine and my friends), teachers, bus drivers, policemen, and even doctors all scared the piss out of me. It was therefore either shit luck or our Lord’s oft-referenced sense of humor that I should be born to parents who lived in a part of town that would have me attending Brookville Elementary School.

Serving the community’s school children from grades one to six, Brookville was presided over by a bona fide psychopath named William B. McLaughlin. I’m not sure what Mr. McLaughlin’s story was. Perhaps he was bullied in school as a child and, determined to get “his turn”, aspired to become a Principal so that he could bully the kids of those who bullied him. Or perhaps he just saw our generation as a bunch of undisciplined queers who needed to be whipped into shape if we were ever going to beat the Ruskies (I can just imagine what he would think of the current generation of emos, goths, and metrosexual pseudo males). Either way, there clearly should have been a law on the books to prevent a lunatic like him from having any regular interaction with children.

At Mr. McLaughlin’s insistence, lunches were silent at Brookville. During the half hour period, you were expected to eat, drink, and shut-the-fuck-up. To enforce this, he patrolled the cafeteria holding, in his right hand, a stack of yardsticks bound together with a series rubber bands. He would slap this homemade lashing stick against his left palm as he walked around giving us the evil eye. Every now and then he would stop at a table where he suspected the children were conspiring to make unauthorized use of their vocal chords. As a warning shot of sorts he would slam his stick down on the tabletop, a thoroughly frightening gesture to a scared little boy such as me. At each table where he did this he would arbitrarily pick a few unlucky students and swat them across their back or on top of their shoulder. Admittedly it wasn’t a hard whack but it made his point clear – step out of line and you will surely be sorry.

Despite the threat of verbal and physical violence, kids (as we all know) are quite incorrigible and, inevitably during each lunch period, a whisper or two would permeate the silent cafeteria. This would prompt Mr. McLaughlin to most forcefully blow the capacity of his lungs into his referee’s whistle then shout “Oooo-kay get those hands up, your mouths are closed!” Once he got everyone’s full attention he would proceed to scream and rant and threaten us with the horrors that awaited at “two-fawty-five” (the term by which he would refer to detention). Even so, a defiant student would every now and then take a stand and refuse to put his hand up when the whistle was blown. This was a decision to be regretted as Mr. McLaughlin would promptly take the child across his knee in front of the whole school and beat his ass raw until he cried like a little baby.

Of course one’s sin need not have necessarily risen to that level of insubordination to have been met with such punishment. A mere accident or error in judgment could have just as easily resulted in you leaving school that day with a black and blue tattoo of Mr. McLaughlin’s hand across your tender young rump, as my second grade classmate David Rosenberg found out when he spilled his juice. Within seconds of the unfortunate incident, Mr. McLaughlin was lifting young David from his seat and frenziedly beating his ass for all to witness. Tears poured down the boy’s face as he screamed and begged for mercy. He got none. I had been sitting right beside David when the whole thing went down and was traumatized for life, my fear of Mr. McLaughlin (and authority figures in general) taken to whole new heights.

The David Incident was by no means a rare occurrence. I watched dozens of school boys suffer the same fate. While I never saw Mr. McLaughlin put his hands on a girl, his magnanimity towards the weaker sex appeared to be just as negligible. I specifically recall the day he walked into the school library and caught little Jordana McCreary smiling. If there was one thing that enraged Mr. McLaughlin it was the smile of a child. Singling  her out from a across the room he pointed at her and shouted, “You, Smiley, yes you,  get up against the wall!” Seemingly in shock she did so without emotion.  That changed once he began his tirade. “Don’t you look at me!” he said, “Turn that smiling face around and face the wall!” At that point she was actually no longer smiling. She did as he said and although I couldn’t see her face, I was pretty sure from the shaking of her head and neck that she was crying. “Just where do you think you are?!” he demanded to know. “Where?! Tell me where you think you are! Oh? Not gonna answer me?! No? Hey! I asked you a question little girl!” He then launched into a raging dissertation on how school was for learning not for smiling or giggling or expressing any sort if happiness. By the end of it Jordana was clearly sobbing. “What’s the matter Smiley?! Are you gonna go home and tell your daddy?!” he asked her,  “You do that! Tell your daddy! Tell him to come see Mr. McLaughlin!” he dared her.

Through the whole outburst, Mrs. Smitherman, the librarian, didn’t dare intervene or shoosh him in accordance with the library’s quiet policy. It was a wise decision on her part. Mr. McLaughlin had as little tolerance for the trespasses of his faculty as he did for those of his pupils and he was unreluctant to castigate them in full view of the student body. On more than one occasion I witnessed him pull a teacher out of class for a verbal lashing. He strategically did so right in front of the door so we could all watch through the plexiglass window. While his exact words may have been muffled by the door and wall, it was clear from his facial expressions, the volume of his voice, and the extension of his finger towards her face that he was not congratulating her for a job well done.

The days were long and stress-filled at Brookville but eventually the clock would circle ‘round to 2:30 and they would come to an end. As with lunchtime, Mr. McLaughlin expected us to remain silent during the bus ride home. Before he would allow the buses to leave the school yard, he would climb aboard each one, blow his whistle, yell at us about our alleged plans to speak to one another, and command us to place our index fingers vertically over our lips and keep them there until we were delivered to our respective bus stops. While the other kids would remove their fingers and commence acting like kids as soon as we were a block or two from Brookville, I kept my finger firmly attached to my lips, sensing Mr. McLaughlin would somehow know if I did not. I was fully convinced he was omnipresent, lurking invisibly, waiting to take corrective action for any transgressions I might commit outside of school. At home I would sometimes have visions of his angry, disembodied head hovering outside my bedroom window, looking in,  blowing his whistle, yelling his various catchphrases at me –  “ooookay get those hands up, your mouths are closed ”, “last one over two-fawty-five”, “make it schnappy”, “are you gonna go home and tell your mommy”, “two-fawty-five, two-fawty-five, two-fawty-five  .   .   .”.

As scared as I was of Mr. McLaughlin, I never personally endured his discipline myself. In fact, he actually seemed to take a liking to me early on. I remember him tapping me on the shoulder one day during an indoor recess and saying, “Come with me son.” He brought me to his office and closed the door behind him then proceeded to ask me a few questions that I can’t remember.  What I do remember is him opening one of his desk drawers and retrieving a zip lock bag filled with carrots and celery sticks. He removed a carrot and held it out to me. I reached and he pulled it back. “What do you say?” he asked.

“Thank you Mr. McLaughlin?” I said, unsure of myself. He then handed me the carrot, this time for real.

While it didn’t faze me at the time, that experience seems incredibly creepy to me now. I don’t remember him trying to molest me or anything but when the school principal takes you behind closed doors to feed you raw, phallic-shaped vegetables it does, in retrospect, seem like the prelude to an ass-fucking. If Mr. McLaughlin liked ‘em young though, I tend to think that Becky Montgomery was more his type. Despite being the miserable bastard he was, his face did seem to light up whenever he saw her around school. “Ree-beccah of Sunny Brook Farm”, he would call out to her, a perverse glow upon his face. I almost don’t blame him, callipygous young tart that she was. She may have been but a girl but Becky Montgomery definitely had a woman’s ass. Not that it would have justified him tapping it or anything but that shit was fucking unreal. It caught my attention long before I could even relate why or correlate it with the sudden tightness in my pants. But I digress.

Mr. McLaughlin was a monster whose existence thoroughly terrified me as a child. Even after I left Brookville he continued to exert a frightening influence on my fragile psyche. For many years my hope was that he would meet his demise after getting transferred to an inner city high school. I imagined him blowing his whistle at a cafeteria full of teenage thugs, shouting at them to get their hands up and keep their mouths closed, threatening to two-fawty-five them, then getting his stupid ass shot dead right where he stood. Unfortunately that never happened and the most for which I could hope was for him to die a lonely, angry old man despised by his wife, disowned by his kids, and generally hated by everybody who had ever known him. Apparently that never happened either. About ten years ago my mother, who works for the school department, had mentioned that she was going to his retirement party. When I asked how she could, in good conscience, go to a party for that evil sonovabitch her response was, “Well he was always nice to me.”

PREVIOUS EPISODE:

The Original Karate Kid


5 Comments

You ever watch Matilda?  This reminds me of the Trunchbull!!  OH THE HORROR OF THE CHOKIE.

Seriously though, is this a true story?  Teachers were mean when i was a kid too, though not to this extent.  Now children are coddled in schools, because if not the government boogeyman will send them all to prison for child abuse.

Posted 2/25/2013 at 8:52 PM by DrummingMediocrity
@DrummingMediocrity – Names may have been changed but the account is otherwise accurate.
Posted 2/25/2013 at 9:28 PM by SKANLYN

Well this finally explains it…

Posted 2/28/2013 at 12:48 PM by tendollar4ways

Why does teaching attract jerks like him? When I hear the propaganda about how loving and dedicated teachers are, the hypocrisy makes me sick.

A teacher in my jhs regularly beat up kids. It was entirely overlooked until he punched a 12 year old girl in the face and she had to explain to her parents why her glasses were broken. Then it made the papers, but he was never suspended or otherwise punished.

Posted 2/28/2013 at 2:29 PM by dingus6

“(I can just imagine what he would think of the current generation of emos, goths, and metrosexual pseudo males)” now that’s an amusing thought.

Posted 2/27/2013 at 1:3 AM by nov_way

Breast Feeding is Immoral

Lactose Intolerance

(originally published on Xanga February 04, 2013)

I first heard about breast feeding from some of the bad kids in school when I was in first or second grade. At that age I actually thought the concept of sucking on a breast for milk was quite funny. I didn’t know any better. Upon getting home from school I immediately asked, “Mommy, did you breast feed me?” I’ll never forget the look of rage and utter disgust on my mother’s face that day as she demanded to know where I learned about such a thins.”Women who .  .  .  only the most  .  .  .,” she stammered, “  .   .   .any woman who would  .  .   . who would do such a thing is a filthy, disgusting, sl- sl- slut!” she exclaimed.

My mother, you see, was from the cutoff generation. That is, the time just before women began to lose their morals. These days things like morals are a long forgotten concept. At one time having a child orally stimulate a highly sensitive erogenous zone was considered sexual abuse. These days it’s actually encouraged by the medical community. Forget about the formula they sell at the grocery store, they say. Instead engage in an act of foreplay with your infant, they instruct mothers. It’s “healthier” for the child they proclaim.  Is it any wonder that the age at which kids are becoming sexually active is getting lower and lower? Or that every girl these days is proudly “bisexual”? Or that female school teachers routinely have sex with their much younger male students?

The erosion of our nation’s Christian values is sickening – from the repeal of state sodomy laws to the legalization of gay marriage, to the proliferation of internet pornography. At the center of it all is the conditioning of our society to sexual immorality beginning in childhood with breast feeding. To all the women out there, I implore you to reject this despicable, sinful practice. If your mind has been so warped that you need to ask why then look around you at the women who did it or do it – filthy whores, all of them, vaginas oozing with gonorrhea, syphilis, and AIDS, their children doomed to grow up as godless and wicked as them. Just say no. A woman who breast feeds is lower than even a single mother.


28 Comments

Humans are mammals. Mammals feed their young with teats filled with milk. And anything can be an erogenous zone. Sorry, but boobs were for nutrition before they were for sexual pleasure.

Posted 2/2/2013 at 8:23 PM by wildchildofthebluemoon

@wildchildofthebluemoon – That’s what the liberals and heathens would like you to believe. Breast milk is meant to be shared with the man to whom you’re married. It’s designed to make a woman sexually enticing to her husband after child birth when she is badly out of shape and unattractive. Otherwise a man might be tempted to have an affair.

Posted 2/2/2013 at 8:28 PM by SKANLYN

Xanga is full of sluts

Posted 2/2/2013 at 9:10 PM by AncoraImparo

@LauraDeLuna – that could be hot

Posted 2/2/2013 at 9:16 PM by AncoraImparo

@AncoraImparo – me chalenging him to pistols at dawn?

if so i shall have to at once find a suitable park.

and purchase a dashing frock coat and cape to twirl about as i brandish my pistol.

Posted 2/3/2013 at 1:6 AM by LauraDeLuna

@wildchildofthebluemoon – he is not serious, obviously.

@SKANLYN – and this heathen finds that insinuation supremely insulting. if i were wearing my gloves right now i would use them to slap you and we would meet with pistols at dawn.

Posted 2/2/2013 at 8:35 PM by LauraDeLuna

what kind of truly sick individual are you? to even begin to equate beast feeding with sexual arousal …. there have been no societies in any time frame that would believe such, have ever belived such and will ever believe such.  only groups i can think of that will are some twisted religions spouting words of the lord for self gratification.  do some research for yourself on the practice and why its needed and dont just go ask a church layman. …wait one ..yer a Westboro Baptist Church member right lol … like sheep led tho the slaughter… sheesh..

Posted 2/3/2013 at 2:10 AM by beforedawn

If those floozies can’t control themselves, mastectomy would be an appropriate therapy.

Posted 2/3/2013 at 4:25 PM by dingus6

@SKANLYN – Stop feeding me propaganda. And you can’t tell me it’s not propaganda, because in my heart of hearts I know it’s propaganda because its opposite of what I believe. You will never be able to convince me otherwise!

Posted 2/3/2013 at 9:24 PM by wildchildofthebluemoon

Breast feeding is bad news. My mother dried up when I was about a month old, but by that time I had already developed a gallon a day habit.

I spent most of my baby days frequenting Boobie Bars, and back alley “Drip Shops” trying to get my fix. By the time I was 6 months old I had traded all my toys for “white honey” and was $20,000 in debt.

One day a goon from one of the “Pump Stations” showed up at my house and repossessed my crib and highchair. That was the last straw.

I was lucky enough to get off the “Wacky Laci” , and regain control of my life, but many are not so fortunate. It’s a long, painful road, and some babies just have to learn the hard way.

Posted 2/3/2013 at 12:0 PM by amateurprose

@LauraDeLuna – Wait..what are you talking about? Did you read my comment??? If you think that sounds like the comment of a guy who took this post seriously then there is little hope for you.

Posted 2/4/2013 at 1:50 AM by amateurprose

@LauraDeLuna – Seriously what?  He’s hilarious

Posted 2/4/2013 at 1:13 AM by lostcauseIam

@lostcauseIam – they all think this is a serious post…

Posted 2/4/2013 at 1:21 AM by LauraDeLuna

@beforedawn – @amateurprose – @dingus6 – @wildchildofthebluemoon –

seriously people…?

Posted 2/4/2013 at 1:9 AM by LauraDeLuna

@LauraDeLuna – sooo… i was write about the Westboro Baptist Church member part?

Posted 2/4/2013 at 6:8 AM by beforedawn

Love your theory on breastmilk . gonna get married so i can get some fresh milk on call,  brb

Posted 2/5/2013 at 1:22 AM by KonFefCount

@LauraDeLuna – Hey, I need my milk from somewhere. Milk prices just to high, and I don’t have a cow… so What’s left to do? I’ve just gotta get it from a woman

Someone’s gotta benefit from their milk, get what i’m saying?

Posted 2/5/2013 at 2:42 AM by KonFefCount

@LauraDeLuna – What? I can be satirical, too.

Posted 2/4/2013 at 7:9 PM by wildchildofthebluemoon

@LauraDeLunatic- well, in that case yes, I was being serious. Just deposit the “fortune” into my paypal account and I will make sure it gets into the right hands!

Posted 2/4/2013 at 10:25 PM by amateurprose

@LauraDeLuna – ugh. I was so proud of myself for that too.

And twinke? Lunatic wasn’t clever, but you calling me a mass produced pastry is? These are confusing times.

Posted 2/4/2013 at 11:3 PM by amateurprose

@LauraDeLuna – You’re right. You actually called me a once mass produced, but now defunct pastry. That’s just hurtful.

Just quit being ugly on the inside. Be sweet on the inside like…like a twinkie.

Posted 2/4/2013 at 11:22 PM by amateurprose

@amateurprose – clever of me, huh? ill tell you, being crazy does come in handy sometimes.

and just like you you mean? you twinkie.

Posted 2/4/2013 at 11:24 PM by LauraDeLuna

@amateurprose – i was going to call you a ding dong but it sounded to amateur… then i was going to call you a ho ho but that was a tad suggestive so then i arrived at twinkie.

and from what i hear twinkies are not so mass produced anymore.

Posted 2/4/2013 at 11:12 PM by LauraDeLuna

@amateurprose – ha ha ha. “Lunatic” really? so old. do you honestly think ive never seen that one before?

also, do you think i would be insulted by that?

i am a crazy person.

im bi-polar you twinkie!

Posted 2/4/2013 at 10:59 PM by LauraDeLuna

@beforedawn – i dont know… you might be… he does seem crazy enough…

@wildchildofthebluemoon – i was thinking more along the line of cheese the “heart of hearts” thing really… well like i said. cheese.

@amateurprose – you werent serious about that??? i thought breast milk addiction was a serious thing! i was going to donate a fortune to search for the CURE!

Posted 2/4/2013 at 7:18 PM by LauraDeLuna

@KonFefCount – yeah… my reply remains the same.

yuck.

Posted 2/5/2013 at 10:59 PM by LauraDeLuna

@KonFefCount – yuck

Posted 2/5/2013 at 2:0 AM by LauraDeLuna

See, this is EXACTLY what I needed this morning. Nothing quite like waking up to someone pushing buttons and people responding as expected. Rile em up!

Posted 2/4/2013 at 4:34 AM by Ravenira

My Wonder Years (Ep. 02)

The Original Karate Kid

(originally published on Xanga November 01, 2012)

A lot of people assume I was born this way. That is, the über cool, alpha male, Arthur Fonzarelli-type that every guy wants to be and every woman wants. Not so. In my youth I was actually a frightened, weak, thoroughly pathetic little boy. I cowered at my own shadow and even more at actual people. I lacked the ability to communicate without a red face and a quivering voice. Girls castrated me with their mere existence. I didn’t know how to dress, how to act, how to not cry when the lights went out during a storm. I was also fat. Somehow I ended up with a small group of friends, though I think they may have been even bigger losers than me. I mean why else would they allow themselves to be seen in public with such a pitiful excuse for a human being?Yes, I was a deplorable little bitch who genuinely deserved get beaten black and blue by his peers every day of the week. In fact, these days I often find myself fantasizing about building a time machine to transport me back to 1983 so I can kick my own ass. My old man apparently had similar sentiments back in the day. Perhaps he wasn’t committed enough to put aside his weekend project of building a tool shed to decode quantum mechanics and construct a device capable of drilling a hole through the fabric of time or anything like that but, when he signed me up for karate lessons, the message was clear. Specifically, that I was a disgraceful little faggot and, were he back in school as a classmate of mine, he’d be bloodying his fists daily with the residue of my despicable face. As my father, however, he had a certain paternal obligation to do what he could to prevent my classmates from doing that to me (justified as they may have been). And so he enrolled me at Frankie Testerossa’s Studio of Self Defense.I was in fifth grade then and, believe it or not, there were no bullies picking on me at school. That’s where the irony of this story kicks-in. You see, at Frankie T’s, the kids didn’t get to take their lessons in the main studio with the actual instructors. Their classes occurred in a backroom where they were taught the foot-fist way by “student instructors” – sadistic teenage bastards between sixteen and eighteen years old with green and brown belts and an insatiable urge to inflict pain on children. Thus my well meaning daddy, in an attempt to protect me from bullies where there were no bullies, hand delivered me to where the bullies were. And these weren’t just your typical bullies. These bullies were older, bigger, and highly proficient in the martial arts. Thanks Dad!Of all the student instructors I had the pleasure of training under at Frankie Testerossa’s Studio of Self Defense, the most memorable was Isaiah – a skinny but fierce African American boy with a small head and an angry face. A most zealous sensei with little sympathy and a pronounced hatred for the ancestors of those who enslaved his ancestors, there was no “wax on, wax off” bullshit with Isaiah. His lessons were conveyed through pure agonizing violence. “BAM!” he would shout each time his fist or foot pummeled a new contusion into my delicate white boy flesh.

I took my fair share of thrashings from Isaiah. During my tenure at the dojo I absorbed kicks to the side and groin, hammers to the head, and various chops to the limbs. He once even beat me with a billy club  (a sort of pre-emptive revenge for the Rodney King incident). It was part of a demonstration on how to ward off an attack. He was fond of those types of demonstrations. Generally they would start with him showing us a countermove for a specific type of assault.  He would then pick one lucky student (often me) to play the victim while he assumed the role of attacker. When the pupil would attempt to execute the countermove he just showed us, Isaiah would counter the countermove with another move he had not yet shown us. Generally this would end with the student (often me) flying through the air and landing face first on the carpet. It was thin carpet. The floor underneath was concrete, as I recall.

I did a lot of crying during class, pussy that I was. For the most part though, I was able to dry my tears by the time my mom came to pick me up. One time, however, I took a rather painful kick to the face that tore my upper lip and gum, causing my mouth to swell and bleed and leaving a mist in my eyes that just wouldn’t dry.

“What happened?” my mom asked with a concerned look as I got into the car, trying my best to avoid looking in her direction.

“I fell all right!” I said defensively, remembering the words of one of the other student instructors, a Jheri curled teen with a Jamaican accent.

“What would yer madda tink ef she saw yuh crying lacka a little gal instead of figh-tin lacka mon?” he had asked me rhetorically.

I stayed at Frankie T’s for about a year, eventually attaining the proud rank of a yellow belt. Shortly thereafter I convinced my parents that becoming a Kung Fu master was not my destiny and they let me quit at the end of the billing cycle. While I no longer had to deal with Isaiah and company, the kids at school soon discovered how fun it was to tease, abuse, and batter me. I may have been in for rough times were it not for my experience at Frankie T’s. Compared to what I endured there, the beatings I suffered at the not-registered-as-a-deadly-weapon hands of my schoolmates seemed almost luxurious.

While I may not have stuck with it long enough to become a contender on the tournament circuit, my schooling in the martial arts left a profound mark on me that remains to this day. Thank you Frankie Testerossa for the brief but significant role you played in my development as a person. Rest in peace you fucking asshole.

PREVIOUS EPISODE:

The Curse of Adam Walsh


2 Comments

Sexual. Next time include nudes.

Posted 11/4/2012 at 5:4 PM by ShimmerBodyCream

This is the best thing I’ve read all day.

Posted 12/8/2012 at 7:6 PM by justjase

Whistler’s-a-motherf***er

Enjoy da Music

(originally published on Xanga September 04, 2012)

I like to whistle. What can I say? I do it all day, every day! If you’re nearby I hope you enjoy listening to it cuz if I’m around you’re gonna be hearing it! It don’t matter where I am –  on the train, in the supermarket, at work. Hell, I even do it at the library and in movie theatres during the feature presentation. I don’t give a fuck! Anybody who don’t like it can go fuck themselves!

Anyway, I’ve always prided myself on my diverse musical tastes and I tend to reflect that in my whistling. Sometimes I’ll whistle a straight tune. Other times I’ll sustain one constant note, like a fucking tea kettle. Then there are times when I chirp like a bird. At other times I get all avant-fucking-garde, whistling up a series of arbitrary notes all around the musical fucking scale.

For the most part, people enjoy my whistling – love it really. I mean who wouldn’t? Every now and then though I do come across a fucking asshole or two who wants to rain on everybody’s parade and shut down my beautiful fucking serenade – like the other day at work. I’m sitting at my desk, minding my own business, cruising ‘round the net while whistling my favorite tunes from the Air Supply catalog. Next thing you know Donny Dickface comes over and, in his lispy homo voice, is all like “Um, ‘scuse me but do you think you can maybe not whistle?” I nearly lost my shit! But I’m a professional.

“Oh, am I bothering you?” I asked the dick wad.

“Well actually, yes. You see, I’m trying to write this RFP response but it’s really difficult to concentrate with your constant whistling.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I sympathized, “but whistling helps me to relax so if it bothers you I guess you’re gonna have to learn to ignore it.”

The fucker then got all belligerent on me.  He was like “I’ve tried my best but I’m afraid I just can’t ignore it. I have something really important that I have to get done within the next two hours but I can’t seem to make any progress when I have to listen to you blowing ‘I’m All Out of Love’ out of your lips in a piercing high pitched tweet.”

“Actually, that was ‘Even the Nights are Better’ not ‘I’m All Out of Love’.” That shithead knows nothing about classic rock!

“Whatever! I don’t wanna listen to it while I’m trying to work! How would you like it if I brought my trumpet in and went all Dizzy Gillespie in your ears when you were trying to get something done?”

“I ain’t playing no trumpet,” I said, “I’m just whistling.”

“Either way, can you stop, please?!”

“No, I ain’t gonna stop! This is a free country faggot. If I wanna whistle cuz it helps me relax at work then I’m sure as fuck gonna whistle.”

He was being a real douche. Even that old hag Bertha Chestnut thought so and hobbled to my defense. “Don’t you listen to that jerk,” she said, “You have a lovely whistle.”

Ah, sweet Bertha Chestnut. Nobody quite knows what the fuck she does around here but she’s been with the company since like 1947. “I’m computer illiterate and I plan to stay that way,” she’s fond of saying.

“That’s the trouble nowadays,” Bertha continued, “people don’t whistle any more. When I was younger, everybody whistled! Back then we couldn’t afford those fancy phonograph machines that all the kids have these days so if you wanted music when you was doin’ the Charleston you would have to make it yourself by whistling.”

I’m not exactly sure what the fuck the Charleston is but I always hear old people talk about it. I think it might be what they used to do for fun before they invented fucking. Anyway, Bertha and I started a lengthy conversation about how much better things would be if more people whistled. I told her about this article I read about a school teacher in Atlanta who got her students to start whistling in class and all around the school. It was an experiment based on some study they did in England that showed how whistling makes you more focused. Those tooting fucks actually improved their test scores by like 300%! Maybe if queer boy here actually listened to what I was saying he could have learned something that might have helped him get that RFP done. Instead he just threw his hands up in the air and stormed away.

The next day I lodged a formal harassment complaint with HR against the fucking asshole-face and got him fired. Good riddens to bad rubbish!

Young Man Blues

But you know nowadays, it’s the old man

He’s got all the money

And a young man

Ain’t got nothin’ in the world these days

-Mose Allison

THE SIGN

(originally published on Xanga August 21, 2012)

Walking through the city I see a lot of things that might strike one as “unusual”. In general, I pay no attention. The other day, however, I developed bit of an inquiring mind upon the sight of a certain scruffy lad I came upon outside of Ogilvie. There was a sign hanging from a lanyard around his neck which read, in block letters, “I AM DEPRESSED”.

“That’s an interesting sign you got there,” I said.

“Yeah, I figured I should probably be proactive,” he said.

“Oh?”

“I’m prone to depression and I thought it might be a good idea, when it gets bad, to wear the sign. That way people will better know how to act around me.”

“I see. So, let ‘em know that you’re feeling low so they can adjust their personality accordingly.”

“Yeah. I realize that when you’re depressed you really have to put yourself first but I’ve always been the kind who always thinks of others, which is probably part of the problem. Anyway, I think it’s important to let people know where I’m at and if I act irrational or inappropriate they need to consider what I’m going through at the time.”

“I’m sure they appreciate the warning.”

“Yeah but there’s always a few self-centered assholes out there who refuse to see where I’m coming from.”

“Well I guess sometimes you just have to accept the bad with the good. In the end you can’t change how other people think about you, just how you think about them.”

“There’s nothing to change. They’re selfish assholes who don’t see that I fucking hurt.”

“Well, I can see that you hurt and I’m sorry.”

“Thanks man.”

“So what’s gotten you so down? What are you so depressed about these days?”

“What’s not to be depressed about man? The polar ice caps are melting. Millions of children go to bed hungry every night. People are dying everyday cuz they ain’t got health insurance and can’t get medical care. The Republicans have declared war on women, the poor, and the gays while making sure the richest 1% of Americans don’t have to pay their fair share of taxes. Crime is out of control. Gun violence is everywhere cuz people can’t let go of some outdated bullshit some stupid old men wrote into the Constitution hundreds of years ago – stupid old men that owned slaves, mind you. And the economy is fucked cuz Bush got us into some stupid war over oil then de-regulated the financial sector and gave all sorts of tax breaks to corporations who sent all the jobs overseas.”

“That seems like a pretty heavy burden you’re carrying on yourself. I try to take life day-by-day and not worry too much about the things I can’t control.”

“Yeah well, I wish I could. I guess I just care too much.”

“There is a difference between caring and being so obsessed with the state of the world that you let it ruin your everyday life.”

“Maybe but I wouldn’t know. My parents never taught me things like coping skills. All they ever did was order me to do this and do that –  ‘take out the trash’, ‘clean your room’, ‘do your homework’, ‘get a haircut’, ‘go to bed’, ‘do better in school’. It was a total power trip for them. Instead of raising me with love and understanding and tolerance it was all about rules and conformity. No wonder I grew up so fucked-up.”

“Well I think everybody can pretty much relate to that. Growing up we all reach that point where we see our parents as a real hassle but when we get older we realize it’s because they loved us and they wanted us to be safe and to instill in us the sense of discipline that we need later in life.”

“No man, you don’t understand. They were total fascist assholes. Let me tell you, when dinner time came around and they called for you, your ass had better be at the table in the next couple of minutes or there’d be Hell to pay. It didn’t matter if you were in the middle of a video game or your favorite TV show or chatting with your friends on Facebook. As soon as dinner was ready you were expected to be in the kitchen and ready to eat. That might not have been so bad on the nights when dad ordered out for pizza or when mom was bringing home McDonald’s but on the nights we were having meatloaf or liver . . . And God help you if you didn’t eat every last bit of broccoli. You could sure as shit forget about dessert. That shit just ain’t normal.”

“I guess you can at least be grateful you weren’t one of those kids going to bed hungry every night.”

“Fuck that shit. I probably would have been better off if I was.”

“I’m sorry for all you’ve had to suffer.”

“Believe me,” he said, “you don’t know the half of it. Pray to that god that doesn’t exist that you never have to go through the kind of shit that I’ve gone through.” He then rolled-up his sleeves to expose a series of scars, scabs, and lacerations up and down his arm. “These are the scars of my pain,” he explained.

“You attempted suicide?” I asked naively.

“No man, I cut myself.”

“You cut yourself? On purpose?”

“When you have my kind of pain sometimes that’s the only thing you can do.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“It’s like when that razor tears into your skin it takes all that pain that’s built up on the inside and moves it to the outside where it’s easier to deal with. It’s like you bleed it out.”

“Wow, that seems pretty extreme.”

“Maybe but there aren’t a whole lot of options for someone like me. These scars also serve as a kind of warning.”

“Oh?”

“They say ‘I hurt and you better notice or there’s no telling what I might do.’ ”

“I see. So, do you work?”

“Work? How the fuck am I supposed to get a job the way things are now? The greedy, piece-of-shit, douche bag, one percenter CEO’s have outsourced all the jobs to India where they can pay people three cents an hour then make millions off their labor.”

“Well I’m not quite sure they’ve outsourced all the jobs. I mean I ride a train every morning that’s packed with people on their way to work. They’ve managed to find jobs. Have you applied many places?”

“I gave up on that shit a long time ago. When I graduated the only things I was getting callbacks on were for shitty call center jobs for like thirty grand a year.”

“Odd, I used to think call center jobs were the ones they tended to outsource. You know though, thirty grand ain’t really a bad place to start. It’s certainly more than I started at straight out of college.”

“That was a long time ago when the dollar was worth a lot more.”

“It wasn’t all that long ago. I mean I’m only in my thirties.”

“That’s pretty old dude. Anyway, I actually got an offer that was for a little more but they wanted me to move to Overland Park, KS. Can you believe that? Who the fuck wants to live in Kansas?”

“I’ve been to Overland Park and it’s actually a pretty nice town. It’s also really close to Kansas City which, grant it, isn’t quite the metropolis this place is but it’s a decent size city and you can definitely find lots to do there during your off time. And the cost of living is pretty low. Rent would sure be a lot cheaper than here so your salary would actually go a lot further. Of course it might be difficult to get the money together to cover your moving expenses.”

“No, they were gonna pay for all that shit. I was almost ready to throw in the towel and go for it too but I fortunately came to my senses. When they told me I had to take a drug test I basically told them to go fuck themselves.”

“Most employers these days are pretty strict about that whole drug-free workplace thing.”

“I wasn’t gonna be doing any drugs in the workplace but, after a long day, you bet your ass I’m gonna spark up a bowl or two and frankly it’s none of their business what I do outside of work. That shit should be illegal.”

“Marijuana is illegal.”

“No, I mean telling someone they have to test negative for weed before they’ll hire you. It’s discrimination. Oh, and they also had a dress code. Can you believe that? They wanted me to wear a jacket and tie to talk to people on the phone!”

“Yeah, a lot of companies are moving towards business casual but there’s still quite a few that expect to you to dress up for work.”

“Fuck that shit! Steve Jobs didn’t wear a suit and tie and neither will I!”

“I see. So, um, what did you go to school for?”

“I got my Bachelor of Science in Human Sexuality.”

“I bet that was an interesting program of study. Especially the lab work.”

“Yeah. My dad was really trying to push me into something like accounting or engineering but I wasn’t interested in that shit. I wanted to choose something I actually like. Like that old saying goes, if you love your job you’ll never work a day in your life. I really like sex, ever since I lost my my virginity – even before, so that seemed like the perfect major.”

“I see. I guess the market for human sexualogists really took a nose dive though when the economy went bad.”

“That’s ’cause Americans are so fucking sexually repressed. It’s really pathetic. Over in Europe they laugh at us over that shit. Laugh at us!” With annoyed, rather than humored tone, he uttered “Ha-ha.”

I looked at my watch and noticed the time. “Looks like I’ve got to get back to the office,” I said. “It was good talking to you. You really gave me a lot to think about.”

“Glad I could help you understand my pain.”

I came away from the encounter I had with that fella outside the train station that day a changed man forever. For the first time I felt there really was no god for, if there was, this young man surely would not have been born into such suffering.

A lot of people view the current generation as nothing more than self-entitled crybabies and slackers. I too, at times, have fallen prey to this misconception. The reality, however, is that young people have a lot to be depressed about these days. They didn’t have it easy like us Gen. X’ers or the babyboomers before us. They grew up with an American dream that promised them everything but delivered on nothing. Many of them were also emotionally scarred by their parent’s unreasonable expectations. As young adults they graduated into a competitive job market that demanded they sell out their individuality in order to procure even menial employment. When they did so, they were generally offered paltry starting salaries while the corporation’s executives took home six and seven figure incomes. Those brave enough to not sell-out found themselves with no employment and under constant threat of having their government assistance stripped from them by right-wing politicians. I thank that god who doesn’t exist that I’ve never had to face the kinds of challenges and hardships that our young people face today. Let us, the fortunate generation who has never had to struggle, turn our thoughts to them and to what we can do to meet their needs.

Life is so demanding

Without understanding

I saw the sign

And it opened up my eyes

I saw the sign

-The Ace of Base


3 Comments

Amen.

Posted 8/21/2012 at 12:25 AM by DrummingMediocrity

holy shit that’s long

i don’t know. i think our generation’s struggling too with their own set and subsets of miseries

but i agree–the young has a load i worry about because i have a young daughter who already takes on so much, feels so much more than i did at her age

Posted 8/21/2012 at 12:51 AM by bonmots

My Wonder Years (Ep. 01)

The Curse of Adam Walsh

(originally published on Xanga April 21, 2012)

When I was ten years old, NBC TV aired Adam, the story of a real life Florida boy who was kidnapped and brutally murdered. It starred Daniel J. Travanti (of Hill Street Blues) as John Walsh, the boy’s father who himself would become a star as host of Fox’s long-running America’s Most Wanted. Jobeth Williams (of Poltergeist fame) played the elder Walsh’s ex-wife Revé. I add emphasis to “ex-wife” as apparently having his young son decapitated by a sexual predator made Mr. Walsh really hungry for side pussy. But that’s a story for different day.’To coincide with the airing of Adam, the Parent Advisory Council at my elementary school invited Officer Hancock from the local Police Department to come to their meeting and talk about child abductions. During his presentation, the good constable passed around a series of crime scene photos showing the mutilated remains of children who had been kidnapped, raped, and murdered. Being a young one, I was of course at home under the care of a babysitter while it all went down. Based on my mother’s reaction the following day though, I can only speculate as to the bullshit Officer Hancock spewed on the audience of frightened young parents. I know at least my mom left there convinced that the horrible things she saw were everyday occurrences. I remember how shaken she was as she described one particular photo she saw. It was the charred carcass of a little boy who was tied to a tree, doused in gasoline, and burned alive.

The following weekend my friends were all taking the bus into town to go to Zayre. Back then Zayre was the place to go for your Atari games as they always seemed to have the latest and greatest before anywhere else. Though I couldn’t then afford Demons to Diamonds on my two dollar a week allowance, it was somehow still a thrill to be able to look at it on the shelf and to grab a free copy of the new Atari Video Game Catalog while I was there. Anyway, when I asked my mom if I could go with them, the answer was “absolutely not”, lest I suffer the same fate as Adam Walsh. When I pleaded and told her that all the other kids’ parents were letting them go, she said something to the effect of “Well apparently they don’t give a shit whether their kids live or die.” Thus I spent the day at home watching Adam 12 and Streets of San Francisco re-runs with my dad and being yelled at by my mom for having a messy room. My friends had a slightly better time. They walked around town, stopped at Dairy Queen for delicious frozen treats, and came back with boxes of these neat things called “Happy Snappers” – sort of like firecrackers for kids that didn’t need to be lit (you just tossed them on the ground and they went pop and sparked).

For the next few years my mom kept me locked in the house to protect me from the masses of child murderers who were salivating outside, just waiting for me to step out.

Fuck you Adam Walsh. If only your faggot ass ran a little faster that day my childhood wouldn’t have been fucked.

 


8 Comments

I remember when that movie about Adam came out.  I always felt sorry for John Walsh and the loss of his child.  I am sorry it pulled everything apart for him and that his wife and him eventually broke up.  I can’t imagine what it does to a marriage to lose a child.

I do respect the fact he has done so much with his pain to help others not experience his same pain.

Posted 4/21/2012 at 11:54 PM by TheTheologiansCafe

Tricky thing; life.

Posted 4/22/2012 at 5:25 AM by nov_way

I guess that movie is a little before my time…  I was encouraged to stay outside until the street lights came on. Then I had about 60 seconds to be inside lol.

Posted 4/23/2012 at 10:5 PM by diditdreaming

@SKANLYN – No doubt trying to keep kids perfectly safe is harming them more than anything else. Obesity and allergies have gone up dramatically sense that time

Posted 4/23/2012 at 7:56 PM by trunthepaige

Well just maybe you would have been tired to a tree and set on fre if not for Adam Walsh’s murder scaring the hell out of your mother. One never knows but fortunately my parents missed that movie

Posted 4/23/2012 at 7:40 PM by trunthepaige

@trunthepaige – I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t have happened. In fact I’m pretty sure the odds of perishing in a house fire that I would have avoided if I were out playing with the other kids were much higher.

Posted 4/23/2012 at 7:50 PM by SKANLYN

“I add emphasis to “ex-wife” as apparently having his young son decapitated by a sexual predator made Mr. Walsh really hungry for side pussy.”

LMAO…it’s amazing to think that this was the same man who was responsible for me wearing a “Kid Alert” bracelet for 2 years and beaten when a kickball would go out of bounds and it would alert my parents that I was AWOL…CALL THE POLICE! HIDE YO KIDS HIDE YO WIVES!

What happened to Adam was a tragedy, yes…but to encourage the masses to become paralyzed by fear? That’s just messed…not for the public -for the kids who had to put up with that BS!

Posted 5/15/2012 at 5:45 PM by imTHEmeowMIXcat

My mom kind of did the same thing to me. I don’t think that she meant to but for the longest time, until I got married, I walked around with the mentality that danger was around every corner. She always told me never to do this or that or I could end up raped and dead in a ditch somewhere. Luckily she has gotten out of the habit of telling that to my little sisters. Kind of screwed me for a long time though. =/ I especially had a horrible opinion of anything with a penis. >.<

Posted 5/15/2012 at 5:35 PM by MommaFish89

Cults

All Hail the Blue Oyster (originally published on Xanga April 12, 2012)

Cults seem to have a bad reputation with most people thinking of the Manson Family, Jim Jones’ Klan, the Branch Davidians, or those silly freaks who cut off their nuts and drank poison while waiting for the Haley Bopp comet to bring them back to their home planet. I tend to think this a rather unfair perception and that your average friendly neighborhood cult is probably just a gathering of harmless goofballs with a few kooky beliefs and a passion for summertime barbecues and barn dances (where the punch is generally non-toxic). Often I’ve entertained the thought of joining one myself, thinking it might be great fun. At one point I was actually presented with the opportunity but, for better or worse, I let fear get the best of me.It was a few years back and I was living in a different part of the country. Through a mutual acquaintance I became friendly with a cute young recovering crackhead named Reignah who kept inviting me to her “church”. By “church” she was not referring to your typical congregation that meets in a chapel every Sunday morning for services. Rather, it was fellowship of  former ruffians who overcame drug addiction through a cooler, hipper version of Jesus. Unlike the very square Jesus of my childhood, their Jesus seemed to really like tattoos and motorcycles and, although I had no photographic evidence to prove it, I imagine he wore a leather jacket and liked his women in tube tops. Collectively known as “The Ark”, this rag tag ensemble of former junkies met each weekend at an abandoned elementary school in a very bad part of town, actually sleeping there Saturday night. Curious though I was, I could not build-up the nerve to accept Reignah’s invitation. Though I was bound to leave with a boatload of entertaining stories, I was pretty sure I would be forced to engage in a number of creepy and potentially homoerotic rituals. Maybe I’m way off base here but when I think of spiritual bonding exercises I get concerned that at some point I’ll have to be nude in the woods with other men, at least one of whom strums an acoustic guitar and sings a song about friendship while everyone gets all touchy-feely. I just wasn’t ready for that shit. Nor was I way particularly comfortable with the way the Ark’s officials would assign new members a fiancée and force them to spend the first half of every Saturday in a Christian marriage class. Reignah already had her man assigned. I may have been a bit more open to accepting her invite if there was any chance they would have paired us. As I said, she was cute and she seemed like she would have been a fun lab partner when we got to that lesson on consummation.

Sadly, Reignah ended-up going back to crack and disappeared one day. Her fiancée, a dimwitted (and possibly retarded) boy named James, was subsequently reassigned to her roommate Patty who lost her own fiancée to a relapse. She, incidentally, ended up leaving the cult and moving to the coast after getting  impregnated by an outsider who was subsequently shot to death while attempting to rob a gas station (there’s no hope in dope kids). I’m not sure whether Patty left voluntarily or was excommunicated but I hear she is currently living with her schizophrenic mom who cares for her fetal alcohol syndrome afflicted child while she goes out on the town to recapture her wasted youth and find a new Mr. Right. Hopefully the next one will have a longer life expectancy than twenty-two.

I hope Reignah eventually got her shit together. She was really nice girl and I sometimes wonder where she is now and what she’s doing. I kind of regret not going to The Ark with her when I had the chance as it surely would have been an experience to remember. Admittedly though, I’m not the best at concealing how I really feel and I fear the Ark-ians, sensing I was less than serious, may have ended-up cooking me into the main dish at their annual Feast of St. John the Baptist Chili Buffet. In the end that would have been a shitty way to go out. Literally.


6 Comments
Cults is hard to describe accurately. If there is abuse going on, there should probably be intervention. Physical, sexual and the one most often hidden in cults is emotional abuse. Manipulation tactics, the  “You’re not good enough” “Only we can save you” “You’ll die without us”, sort of deal. That can cause serious PTSD symptoms. I was part of a cult. A cult that promised to help young girls with life controlling issues, but really treated psychiatric illnesses with a Bible and created ultimate dependency on them. A member of parliament in Australia called them “a particularly bad example of a money making cult”. Basically there goal is for money purposes, not to have ultimate control. They use girl’s illnesses to gain more profits, and even lie about what illnesses they treat. Like sex trafficked victims. They tell their sponsors they help sex trafficked victims and then the sponsors just pour in profits. It’s sick.
Posted 4/12/2012 at 8:48 PM by FallenSafely
Many quotable lines in this one, but ”  I get concerned that at some point I’ll have to be nude in the woods with other men, at least one of whom strums an acoustic guitar and sings a song about friendship while everyone gets all touchy-feely. I just wasn’t ready for that shit.” was particularly amusing. @FallenSafely – Well, the “money” and “gaining complete control” aspects aren’t mutually exclusive. I think the objective of the type of cult that you described is to gain complete control so that you are able to take their money with ease.
Posted 4/13/2012 at 11:3 PM by amateurprose
@amateurprose hit on the head. it’s funny because a few days ago me and a co-worker were talking about the word “cult” and how it has such a negative meaning attached to it.
Posted 4/14/2012 at 3:4 PM by diditdreaming
I can’t resist crackheads either. I think it’s their post slender physiques.
Posted 4/16/2012 at 12:53 AM by ShimmerBodyCream
@FallenSafely – Yeah. From what iv’e read, I think deviant sex seems to be a regularly served dish as well. Especially one that, as you said “was specifically designed to help troubled girls with life control issues” That’s sounds like it was just crawling with deviant sex.
Posted 4/13/2012 at 11:20 PM by amateurprose
@amateurprose – I think you are probably right… I think what I meant to say was that some cults are only about control. They’re just freaks. This cult was also about money. Multi Millions of it.
Posted 4/13/2012 at 11:9 PM by FallenSafely

Santa’s Revenge

You Better Watch Out .  .  .  .

(originally published on Xanga December 22, 2009)

Over the last few months, young Tommy Patterson had become quite lethargic, withdrawn, and prone to night terrors and nocturnal incontinence. His once hardy appetite had become practically non-existent and his complexion was pale and sickly. Mr. Patterson had long sensed there was something wrong. The boy’s recent suspension from school for engaging in “inappropriate behaviors” only confirmed his suspicion.

“I just don’t understand,” he said, “You’re moody all the time, you don’t talk to us any more, now you’re getting into trouble at school. What exactly is going on here Mister?”

“Nothing,” Tommy insisted, but his father continued to probe.

“Something is obviously going on with you and if you don’t tell me, I may just have to call Santa and tell him to skip over our house this year.”

Suddenly Tommy burst into tears. He buried his head in the pillow and sobbed into it.

“Tommy, son, what’s the matter? You can tell me. I’m your father, I love you.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Tommy said.

“Try me,” said Mr. Patterson.

“No, I can’t. I really can’t.”

“Son, no matter what it is, we’ll get through it. Come on now, what happened?”

“I really can’t dad. He said he’d hurt you and mommy if ever I said anything.”

“Who? Who would hurt your mother and me?”

“I can’t say.”

“Did someone do something to you Tommy? Touch you in a bad way?”

“No, no,” Tommy sobbed.

“Tommy???”

The boy clung as tight as he could to his secret but his father’s persistence began to erode his grip until it finally slipped away and he had to let it out.  “I’m sorry daddy,” he cried, “ I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay son, it’s not your fault. He forced you to do it.” The shadow of concern briefly lifted from his visage which became most serious. Looking Tommy stone cold and straight in the eye he asked, through nearly clenched teeth, “Didn’t he??”

“Yes, yes. I didn’t want to but he made me.”

The elder Patterson then shouted to his wife downstairs, “Jane, call the police.”

Shortly thereafter two squad cars arrived at Santa Claus’ workshop. Father Christmas was read his Miranda rights and placed promptly under arrest.

During the bail hearing, the prosecutor argued that Mr. Claus should be held without bail on account of the threats he made against Tommy’s parents. The judge, however, felt this unnecessary and released Claus on personal recognizance leaving him free to fulfill his annual duties. He was, however, required to maintain a distance of one thousand feet from the Patterson’s and their home at all times.

“But what about my Christmas presents?” young Tommy asked, “All the other children will have toys waiting for them Christmas morning but I’ll have nothing.” Sympathetic to his concern, the judge requested that Santa bring Tommy’s gifts to a local precinct no later than noon on December 24th. The police would arrange a time on Christmas Day when he could come to claim them.

But that never happened.

“Ho, ho, ho, my Tommy boy,” Santa Claus was saying. It was late on the night of Christmas Eve at the Patterson’s home and there stood jolly St. Nick in full violation of court orders. Behind him, Mr. and Mrs. Patterson were bound to their chairs with duct tape.

“What are you doing here?” Tommy asked.

“Why it’s Christmas Eve. I stop by the homes of every little girl and boy.”

“You weren’t supposed to come this year.”

“Well, yeah, kinda, but I really thought I should anyway – for the benefit of your parents.” He turned to Mr. and Mrs. Patterson. “Mom, dad, Tommy has something to tell you.”

“Tell us what you fiend?!” Mr. Patterson said.

“Tommy, what is it?” asked Mrs. Patterson.

“Go on,” said Santa, “Tell them.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tommy said

“Oh come on now Tommy, let’s not beat around the bush here. Isn’t it about time you came out of the closet to your parents? I mean, they have a right to know.”

“Come out of the closet? Just what do you mean?” inquired Mr. Patterson.

“Go ahead Tommy,” said Santa, “tell them.”

“Tell them what? I told you I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Tommy.

“Oh really? So you’re trying to say that you don’t like it when Santa goes for a sleigh ride in your rosebud?” the Father of Christmas asked.

“Surely you can’t be saying,” Mrs. Patterson said, “that our Tommy, our son, our flesh and blood is a, a,  a  .  .  .”

Santa finished her sentence, “that’s right, a fag!”

“No Tommy,” she said, “how could you?”

“No mommy! I promise! He made me do it!”

“He better have,” said Mr. Patterson.

“Yes, daddy, I swear. I didn’t want to. He forced me.”

“Forced you, huh?” Santa Claus said, “You sure didn’t seem to resist too much once we got started.”

Tears were running down Tommy’s cheeks. “You made me. You said you’d hurt my mommy and daddy if I didn’t.”

“Well actually, I said I would hurt your mommy and daddy if you told them and, to be frank, I’m going to do more than just hurt them. In fact, I’m going to kill them. Ho, ho, ho!”

“No, please don’t!” the boy begged.

“We had a deal son,” Santa said.

Tommy pleaded with Santa not to harm his parents. “I’ll do anything, I promise, just let them go.”

“Anything eh?” said Santa.

“No, don’t do it son,” his dad said.

“Don’t give in,” said his mom, “if you do, you’ll be a fag and God hates fags.”

“Your mother’s right,” Mr. Patterson said, “That’s why he gives them AIDS.”

“But I don’t want you to die,” said Tommy.

“It’s all right son,” his dad said, “we’re older, we’ve lived our life.”

“How noble,” said Santa Claus, “but let’s face it, no kid wants to be an orphan, not even a little gay boy like your son.” He turned to Tommy and said, “Now why don’t you get your little tush on over here and come lick Santa’s luscious candy cane.”

Tommy’s parents begged him not to give into the homosexual demon but he could not let his parents die, even as they detailed to him the horrors of eternal damnation in a furnace of everlasting fire.

“Tell your mommy and daddy how much you love bouncing up and down on Santa’s Yule log!” demanded Kris Kringle. Tommy was silent at first but then Santa threatened “Say it or I’ll kill them!”

“I love your Yule log Santa.”

“That’s right fag boy – you love it! Say it!”

“I love it Santa! I love it buried deep inside me!”

“Oh my God, I can’t believe our son is a fag,” said Mrs. Patterson.

Santa was moaning as he inched closer. “Santa Claus is coming to town, Santa Claus is coming to town, Santa Claus is coming to town!” he panted.

“Don’t let him do it son,” cried Mr. Patterson.

“Ahhhhhh!” Santa yelled out, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. “Holy shit! I’m dropping my fucking eggnog into your fucking holly hole you fucking queer boy faggot!”

“Nooooooo!” screamed Mrs. Patterson, “You really are a fag now! How could you do this to me?! To us?!”

“I’m sorry mommy, I had to.”

“You’re dead to me!” said Mr. Patterson. “As far as I’m concerned, I have no son,”

“Please daddy! I did it because I didn’t want him to hurt you and mommy.”

“Aw, how touching,” said Santa. “Too bad I’ve decided to kill them anyway.”

“But you promised,” said Tommy.

“So did you son. So did you,” replied Santa. He then pulled the hunting knife from the sheath on his belt.

“No, please,” Tommy said, but he was ignored.

“I can’t believe we’re going to die knowing our son is a fag,” said Mrs. Patterson.

“You disappointed me so much,” said Mr. Patterson.

“You don’t think we’ll go to Hell for raising a faggot, do you?” Mrs. Patterson asked her husband.

“No Jane,” he said, “the boy had free will. He could have chosen the right path but instead he chose to be a fag. He’ll be sorry though when he goes before the Lord for judgment!”

“I’m sorry,” said Tommy, “I never meant to disappoint you.”

With that, Santa plunged his knife repeatedly into each of them. Blood spattered from their red stained teeth as the blade ripped into their abdomens and they uttered their final words lamenting that their son had turned his back on Christ to become a filthy sodomite. When they finally expired, Santa dropped the knife to the floor, wiped the blood from his hands with a handkerchief, then said, “My work is done here Tommy. I guess I should be going now. It’s almost Christmas morning and I’ve still got places to go and people to see.” He walked over to the traumatized boy and kissed him tenderly.  “You were fabulous,” he whispered into Tommy’s ear. “I’ll definitely be back for more.” He then disappeared, into a trail of falling dust. Tommy heard sleigh bells above and the pattering of reindeer hooves as Santa called out, “Merry Christmas to all and to all a goodnight!”

The orphan boy looked upon his dead parents. He thought of their last thoughts before they perished. “I just wanted to save you mom and dad,” he sobbed, “I just wanted to save you.”

He retrieved the bloody knife from the floor. Holding it with a trembling right hand, he carefully studied the blade, gliding the tip of his left index finger over it. It sliced into him and he began to bleed. He thought about it for a moment then finalized his decision. He pressed the knife firmly against his throat then cut straight across

Now he’s in Hell.

Happy Holidays

from

SKANLYN


30 Comments

are you fascinated with suicide?

Posted 12/22/2009 at 3:33 PM by mydarling_jodie

@mydarling_jodie –

Not particulaly. Why do you ask?

Posted 12/22/2009 at 3:51 PM by SKANLYN

your last two posts consist of cutting something and death why

Posted 12/22/2009 at 6:0 PM by mydarling_jodie

@mydarling_jodie –

Just being festive. It’s the holidays you know!

Posted 12/23/2009 at 12:0 PM by SKANLYN

This was waaaaayyy too long of a post!  And I thought I was morbid 🙂

Posted 12/24/2009 at 6:58 PM by strawberries_and_honey

Fucking awesome.

Posted 12/27/2009 at 10:44 PM by TheDarkCreature

TL;DR

Posted 12/9/2010 at 7:46 PM by RaVnR

@DiaryOfAPsychopath – All in the holiday spirit.

Posted 12/27/2009 at 11:40 PM by SKANLYN

@LoBornlytesThoughtPalace – The false idol known as Santa Claus has been turning children away from the lord for centuries. It’s about time I exposed him for who he really is.

Posted 12/24/2010 at 12:37 PM by SKANLYN

I’ve seen you around, but I never realized you write stories.

Posted 1/9/2010 at 1:54 PM by Justin_DeBin

er ok L O L.. wtf?

Posted 11/30/2010 at 12:48 PM by mysterygirl3000

hahahahahaha what did I just read!

Posted 12/25/2010 at 11:58 AM by ShimmerBodyCream

Wow! Great job then!

Posted 12/24/2010 at 1:3 PM by LoBornlytesThoughtPalace

Unbelievably sick. But your crime is bad taste, as usual!

Posted 12/24/2010 at 11:46 AM by LoBornlytesThoughtPalace

Haha wow!! I really like your stories…rather interesting and entertaining. =D

Posted 12/17/2011 at 4:36 PM by pinktiger335

@SKANLYN – Haha, well what can I say… 😉

Posted 12/17/2011 at 4:55 PM by pinktiger335

So that church sign in texas was right. SANTA=SATAN

Posted 12/15/2011 at 11:42 AM by AncoraImparo

Dark… reminds me of something I wrote a few years back…

Merry Christmas one and all!

I’ll be sliting my writs down the hall…

As you talk and laugh and make sick jokes maybe one day… I’ll cut your throat.

Laugh, Oh  laugh, laugh I say away your such a big man, oh you the bread winner.

Your the man we all know this.

But your not a man in my eyes.

Your a brat a child, hiding behide lies.

Hurting your wife.

Hiting her, oh that is not the thing to do.

If I wasn’t a women you’d be on the floor.

So broken and brused an inch from death, I want you to feel the blood mixed with sweat.

And beg… beg me to spare your fucking life.

All this I’ll ponder as  I try to laugh with everyone tonight.

Posted 12/18/2011 at 10:8 PM by Cookstergirl88

@SKANLYN – Yup, I already have. This was almost five years ago. Maybe you should too?

Posted 12/19/2011 at 1:33 AM by Cookstergirl88

         He’s an evil man that over drinks. And is a perv, I left before anyting happend. But he brought my Mom down. And she’ll never leave him. But I’ve moved on wit my life and stay away from him.

Posted 12/19/2011 at 1:36 AM by Cookstergirl88

@wrybreadspread –  Thisone poem is so old and  a bit dark for me. Looking up the other one you are talking about.

Posted 12/24/2012 at 12:38 AM by Cookstergirl88

@Cookstergirl88 – Wow – that’s some sick shit. You should seek some counseling.

Posted 12/19/2011 at 1:5 AM by SKANLYN

@pinktiger335 – You have great taste (much more sophisticated than the rest of the dolts here out on the Xanga!).

Posted 12/17/2011 at 4:51 PM by SKANLYN

@Cookstergirl88 – liking your post better where the xmas lights flicker on when you leave the bldg.  but far be it from me to muzzle anybody’s muse.

Posted 12/24/2012 at 12:27 AM by wrybreadspread

Dude you are a freaking trip!  =B

Posted 12/15/2011 at 8:51 AM by bluepillorredpill

Demented.

Posted 2/4/2011 at 6:15 PM by TheEmeraldPixie

Posted 1/11/2011 at 4:2 PM by Diva_Jyoti_3

@TheEmeraldPixie – LOL LOL

Posted 12/16/2011 at 1:18 PM by DivaJyoti

Yes!

Posted 12/23/2012 at 9:21 PM by FattiesGonnaFat

beautiful

Posted 2/27/2013 at 6:0 AM by cofcofo

create counter

9/11: What Really Happened?

How It All Went Down

(originally published on Xanga September 11, 2009)

It should be apparent to all by now that the U.S. government was responsible for the attacks on September 11, 2001. Even Charlie Sheen says so. However, it seems that many of my fellow liberal Xanga bloggers are still in denial over this incontrovertible fact. After all, it seemed like truly a great day for us Democrat voters as America finally got its due punishment for what our Republican leaders have done in the name of oil. Many of us danced in the streets, handing out candy to the children, as we celebrated the great victory that we thought we witnessed. As time went on though and more and more information came to light, it seemed that there were more questions than answers and it became clear that the Bush Administration was engaging in a massive cover-up. This culminated in the September 11th Commission Report, a 571 page volume that seemed only slightly more believable than something authored by the Brothers Grimm.

So what really happened on September 11th? To answer that, I carefully examined all of the circumstantial evidence and compiled the following transcript of a meeting in the Oval Office that took place on Friday, September 7th, 2001.

George W. Bush: Before we adjourn, does anyone have anything else they’d like to bring up?

Dick Cheney: Yes Mr. President, there’s something that I’ve been meaning to discuss.

George W. Bush: Sure thing. What is it Dick?

Dick Cheney: Well, as you know, when I resigned from Haliburton they gave me a very handsome severance package worth nearly sixty million dollars.

George W. Bush: Well I’d say that was mighty generous of them Dick.

Dick Cheney: Well yes Mr. President, it was. But, with such generosity comes a certain amount of obligation. You see, when I stepped down there was quite a bit of concern about the future of the company.

George W. Bush: That’s very understandable.

Dick Cheney: Yes Mr. President. I was however able to reassure everybody that once we stole the election from Gore and I was Vice President, I would see to it that Haliburton would be privy to lots of sweetheart deals and government contracts.

George W. Bush: I see.

Dick Cheney: Now, as you know, things have been pretty dry and I was hoping you might be able to help me out, see to it that the shareholders and hardworking executives of Haliburton don’t continue to suffer.

George W. Bush: Well, what did you have in mind Dick?

Dick Cheney: Well Sir, I was thinking we could invade Iraq. We do, after all, still have some unfinished business there leftover from your father’s administration.

George W. Bush: Gee Dick, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.

Dick Cheney: Now hear me out Sir, we would start with a massive bombing campaign, lots of destruction. It goes on for a couple of months, then you fly in and declare victory to our troops and we have Haliburton go in and clean it all up and spend the next several years rebuilding.

George W. Bush: Ohhhh, I don’t know. I mean I just can’t go around invading countries. The American people would never go for it, putting their sons and daughters in harm’s way for no good reason.

Dick Cheney: Well, I was thinking we could give them a good reason.

George W. Bush: Oh?

Dick Cheney: What if we were to fly a couple of planes into the Pentagon and World Trade Center? You know, bring the Twin Towers right down and do some heavy damage to the Pentagon then blame it on that Osama Bin Laden.

George W. Bush: But Dick, Osama Bin Laden is in Afghanistan, not Iraq.

Dick Cheney: Yeah, yeah I know Sir. Here’s the thing though, we can start off by bombing Afghanistan and shooting the place up. That way we’ll get to kill off lots of Muslims. We’ve been meaning to wipe out Islam for a while now because of how it empowers the blacks.

George W. Bush: Yeah,like that up and coming Senator Barack Obama. You just know he’s eventually gonna be trouble. We Republicans sure do hate Muslims and blacks – all minorities in fact. Except of course for the Indians and Orientas since they’re good at math and science and can help us build the bombs and missiles we need to unjustly force our will on the rest of the world.

Dick Cheney: Exactly Sir. Now after we’ve been bringing death and destruction to the Afghan people for several weeks, we tie everything back to Saddam Hussein who we say is funding Bin Laden and producing weapons of mass destruction. Then we let the fireworks begin.

George W. Bush: Sounds like a plan but how will we set it in motion?

Dick Cheney: [pressing the intercom button on the President’s desk phone] Maria, send in our envoy.

Marie: [speaking over the intercom] Yes Mr. Vice President.

The door to oval office opens and the envoy enters.

George W. Bush: Ah, Everybody Loves Raymond, how are you?

Everybody Loves Raymond: Great Mr. President. As they say, TGIF – thank God It’s Friday.

Dick Cheney: Ha, ha, ha, yes indeed Mr. Loves Raymond, yes indeed.

Everybody Loves Raymond: Dickie C., how the hell are ya?

Dick Cheney: Never been better my friend. Never been better. Love the show by the way.

George W. Bush: Yes, it’s been real funny lately. Love that guy who plays Young Frankenstein. He makes Laura and me laugh real hard.

Everybody Loves Raymond: Why thank you. We try our best to entertain the people.

George W. Bush: Well you’re doing a good job.

Everybody Loves Raymond: Much appreciated Mr. President. So what can I do for you boys?

Dick Cheney: Well I know you have some suicide bombers on retainer.

Everybody Loves Raymond:  I certainly do.

Dick Cheney: Can any of them fly large aircraft?

Everybody Loves Raymond: Can any of them fly large aircraft?  Can any of them fly large aircraft, he asks? Why of course, they all can! Not very good at landing but they definitely can handle themselves in the air.

Dick Cheney: Great! We need a couple of planes to take out the World Trade Center and one to hit the Pentagon.

Everybody Loves Raymond: Consider it done Mr. Vice President. I got ‘em ready and waiting. Monday night on my show I’ll just give the ol’ secret hand signal and it will be done Tuesday morning.

Dick Cheney: Outstanding!

Colin Powell: In all due respect Mr. Vice President, I don’t think it’s such a good idea to kill hundreds, if not thousands of our own citizens in an act of false flag terrorism. That type of thing could really backfire on us.

Dick Cheney: Hush boy, you need to learn your place as one of our token darkies. Learn to be more submissive like Condi over there. That’s why she gets to sleep in the house and you have to stay in the barn all night.

Condoleeza Rice: Oh lawdy Masser Vite Pred-dent, I sho does appree-dee-ate dat. You and Masser Pred-dent showly am the Massers of Massers.

Dick Cheney: Aw Miss Condi, you are just too kind. Say, why don’t you go and mix us up a nice pitcher of Country Time lemonade.

Condoleeza Rice: Yessah Masser Vite Pred-dent, yessah!

George W. Bush: But what about what Colin says Dick? Could this end up backfiring on us? I mean what if someone finds out about our evil plan.

Dick Cheney: We’ll just call them crazy and un-American then pass the PATRIOT Act and send them off to Guantanamo Bay to be imprisoned indefinitely without writ of Habeus Corpus. We got it all figured out.

George W. Bush: Well, okay then but do you think a couple of planes are going to be able to take down those two towers? I mean no plane crash in history has ever been able to take down a building that size.

Everybody Loves Raymond: Not to worry Mr. President, I’ll call my buddy King of Queens and have him send his set crew over there this weekend to wire up some charges inside the North and South Towers, as well as Building 7. We can take down that one too for good measure and blame it on flaming debris.

Dick Cheney: Great idea Everybody Loves Raymond!

Everybody Loves Raymond: No problem. Anything me an my ultra right wing TV wife Patricia Heaton can do for your corrupt and illegitimate Republican administration, just let us know. We’re happy to oblige, even if it results in the deaths of 3,000 fellow Americans.

George W. Bush: All righty then, let’s blow them up, blow them up real good.

Dick Cheney: As you wish Mr. President.

George W. Bush: Excellent, now if you’ll all excuse me, I’m off to go have bestialities with an armadillo, which is what we fundamentalist Christians from Texas do between rallying for school prayer and petitioning for a constitutional amendment to protect the sanctity of marriage. [Looking at Cheney] Dick, I believe we have a meeting later this afternoon to discuss how we can deny affordable health insurance to a greater number of working people while creating more tax breaks for the wealthiest one percent of Americans.

Dick Cheney: Yes Sir we do.

George W. Bush: Great, I’ll see you then.

On the night of Monday September 10th, 2001, Everybody Loves Raymond gave the secret hand signal during his time slot on CBS, green lighting the attacks that would happen the following morning. His show would continue to run for another four years and continues in syndication to this day. Bush and Cheney wrecked havoc around the globe for the remainder of their tenure under the guise of a so-called “War on Terror”. On January 20, 2009, that troublesome Senator Barack Hussein Obama was sworn in as the nation’s first African-American, Muslim, communist, terrorist-sympathizing President. As for the pitcher of lemonade that Condoleeza Rice was supposed to make, well no one quite knows whatever happened to that.

And the rest, as they say, is history.


23 Comments

so are some conspiracies but im not complaining

Posted 9/11/2009 at 1:40 AM by mydarling_jodie

Good read

Posted 9/11/2009 at 2:9 AM by Cookstergirl88

Honestly, I think you had too much fun with this satire…

Posted 9/21/2009 at 4:57 PM by bealibertarian

@bealibertarian – Satire?? Open your eyes man. The evidence is all there.

Posted 9/21/2009 at 6:43 PM by SKANLYN

Good read, I hope, seriously hope, that it didn’t happen anything like this.

Posted 9/11/2009 at 9:29 PM by maxxi2031

Either this is satire, or you’re the liberal Glenn Beck.

Posted 9/16/2009 at 4:1 PM by ctk86
It all makes so much sense now
Posted 9/13/2010 at 7:51 PM by mooshpitmatt

I KNEW IT!

Posted 9/13/2010 at 7:49 PM by Lordv16

I saw the secret hand signal.

Posted 9/13/2010 at 7:48 PM by TheTheologiansCafe

I never much trusted that Everybody Loves Raymond.  It’s the haircut I think.

Posted 9/13/2010 at 8:7 PM by Covergirl_For_Sanity_Fair

Posted 9/11/2010 at 10:8 PM by macphoto

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Posted 9/13/2010 at 7:39 PM by Justin_DeBin

Bush and Cheney are long gone and you libs are still hallucinating about them.

Why don’t you snap out of it and see how liberalism is destroying our society right this very minute.

It’s the Obama, Stupid!

Posted 9/11/2010 at 10:11 PM by LoBornlytesThoughtPalace

ah a nice Sunday morning read

Posted 9/11/2010 at 8:24 PM by phillyista

Bahaha! Poor armadillo…

Posted 9/11/2011 at 2:13 PM by imTHEmeowMIXcat

It was probably a tad more complex than you make it out to be, but I’m just saying…

Posted 9/14/2010 at 10:16 AM by alampi

“I’m going to go have bestialities with an armadillo” HAHAHAHAHA

Until that point, I was snickering quietly to myself as I read your satire at work.

I hit that and burst into loud peals of laughter, bringing my boss to my office to check on what I was doing.

…. Good thing we share a political leaning and I don’t actually have anything to do for an hour or so. That could have been… bad.

:D.

Posted 9/20/2010 at 11:43 AM by pewterrose

i think you should make this a video, haha

Posted 9/13/2010 at 9:1 PM by maniacsicko

Wrong on so many levels. Also hilarious. 

Posted 9/13/2010 at 11:9 PM by ZombieMom_Speaks

@quodmenutriut – Few people share my political leaning. Whether you are left or right, you will surely take issue with something I say (actually, probably a lot of what I say).

Posted 9/20/2010 at 12:0 PM by SKANLYN

you are so odd….

Posted 10/5/2012 at 1:44 AM by LauraDeLuna

I love a good fictional read. Now, what REALLY happened ? Φ

Totally recommend http://bealibertarian.xanga.com/‘s post !

Posted 9/15/2012 at 6:15 AM by dw817

I seek refuge in Allah from the accursed Satan Name of Allah, the Merciful Didn’t you asked your self one day : What’s The Purpose of life ? Here you will get the answer : http://www.islamtomorrow.com/purpose.htm

Jesus, Christ peace be upon him

http://jesus-christ-2012.blogspot.com/

O Jesus, son of Mary! Is thy Lord able to send down for us a table spread with food from heavenhttp://jesussonofmary1432.blogspot.com/

A video clip of the very influential American preacher Yusuf Estes

http://www.youtube.com/v/5J-9dn3_hpY&rel=0&autoplay=0&color1=bdbdbd&color2=bdbdbd&border=0

Allah, CREATED THE UNIVERSE FROM NOTHING

http://allah-created-the-universe.blogspot.com/

THE COLLAPSE OF THE THEORY OF EVOLUTION IN 20 QUESTIONS

http://newaninvitationtothetruth.blogspot.com/

((( Acquainted With Islam )))

http://aslam-ahmd.blogspot.com/

converts

http://converts-ahmd.blogspot.com

home

http://www.islamhouse.com
.0

Posted 9/17/2012 at 3:43 PM by ahmd1439

My Favorite Episode of The Brady Bunch

The Sharif Don’t Like It

(originally published March 22, 2009 on Xanga)

No, no it’s not the one with Davy Jones (although that is a good one indeed). Nor is it that three-parter where they go to Hawaii and Bobby finds the taboo tiki idol that brings everyone bad luck. No, I’m talking about the one entitled “The Sharif Don’t Like It”, which was the very last episode to feature Cousin Oliver. It all begins on a late afternoon in May, only a few days after Mother’s Day – Oliver’s favorite holiday, even though his Mom is far away in the jungles of South America accompanying his dad on an alleged “engineering assignment”. It is on this day that Sears begins its annual women’s hosiery sale. Oliver, sick little fuck that he is, had snatched the sales circular from the Sunday paper and hid it under his mattress. A few days later when he is alone, believing everyone is far, far away, he retrieves it and begins gazing at the pages of lower female extremities encased in sheer nylon and silk, wondering how such material would feel against his meager genitals. What a freak! Completing dismissing the teachings of Mohammed in favor of short-lived sinful delights, he unfastens his trousers and proceeds to fondle himself. He closes his eyes and moans quietly to himself as he is overcome by the evil sensations of self abuse. Suddenly, the door opens and little Cindy Brady’s innocence is shattered in an instant, though she does not yet know it. She giggles as the perverted little bastard screams “Go away! Get out of here! Now!” His face is red in shame (as it should be). Shortly thereafter, the youngest Brady finds herself chatting with her elder sisters. “Jan! Jan! Marcia! Marcia!” she cries,“You’ll never guess what I saw Cousin Oliver doing!”

At first, her sisters rebuke her for entering Oliver’s room without knocking. When they learn of what she saw, however, their attitude changes. Giggling through her lispy account of how she caught Oliver “rubbing his little pee pee”, her demeanor becomes much more solemn as she sees the serious looks that fall upon Jan’s and Marcia’s faces.

“You’ve got to tell mom and dad about this,” declares Jan.

“Why?” Cindy asks, “It was funny.  Is Oliver gonna be in trouble or something?” This launches Marcia into a discussion of Islamic Law. “Salami Law?” Cindy asks ever-so-innocently.

“No, silly Islamic Law,” says Jan.

“Oh, you mean the Qu’ran.”

“Yes Cindy,” Marica tells her. “Mohammed told us that what Oliver was doing is a bad bad thing and he needs to be punished under the shariah.”

Cindy is bewildered by this and is apparently oblivious to the graveness of her cousin’s sin. Jan and Marcia, however, are quite adamant that she elevate this to their parents. Of course, while they appear to be good Muslims on the surface, one cannot help but think that Cindy’s sisters may not totally be driven by their love of Allah. Perhaps there is also a certain amount of jealousy over their inability to enjoy the same hedonistic pleasures as Oliver. Such sin is, of course, no longer an option since undergoing the female circumcision rituals to which all Brady girls are subject on their tenth birthday (young Cindy has yet to experience the sacramental amputation of the clitoris and sewing of the labia, though Mike and Carol have recently talked to Sam the Butcher about catering the post clitoridectomy and infibulation reception when the time comes).

Soon after informing their parents, the Brady Family Tribunal convenes and Oliver is sentenced to death by stoning. As Mohammed prescribes, the stones shall not be so big that they expire the condemned immediately yet not so small that they fail to cause the necessary suffering before his death. On the big day, Oliver is wrapped in his death shroud and buried to his waist in the backyard. Each family member (as well as Alice) takes their turn hurling stones at him. When it is Cindy’s turn, however, she drops her stone and runs into the house crying. Her stepfather follows. On her bed, face pressed into her pillow, she sobs. “Now Cindy,” Mike Brady tells her, “I know that this is not easy for you but you’re a young lady now. You need to grow up and be a good Muslim.”

“But I don’t want Oliver to die,” she says.

“I know you don’t honey but this is something you need to do. It is Allah’s will” He then begins reading a verse from the Qu’ran to her. Slowly but surely, she comes to realize the terrible thing that Oliver has done and how it is evil ones like him that anger Allah and they are the reason her people have been unable to drive the imperial Zionists from the occupied territories. She rises from the bed and with a look confidence and purpose goes back to the stoning.

When she returns, Oliver’s face and hair are pretty bloodied. One of the lenses of his glasses is shattered and has lacerated his eye. Squinting through the other eye, a look of sheer terror comes over him when he sees Cindy pick up the stone. He screams in terror. With the wrath of Allah in her eyes, she launches the stone. Then there is silence and Oliver is still. Greg goes over to investigate. After checking the pulse in his neck he looks up and says “Heeeee’s dead!” The family then erupts into screams of delight. “We did it, we did it!” someone says as they jump for joy knowing that Allah’s will has been faithfully served this day. As the episode concludes, there’s a potato sack race (Peter wins) and a pie eating contest (Jan and Bobby tie) then the kids don their Silver Platters costumes for a spirited rendition of “Keep On, Keep On Dancing All Through the Night” before the scene dissolves to the familiar grid.

Not sure why but it seems they haven’t rerun this episode in years. It’s a shame. Not only was it entertaining but it also provided an important moral lesson to the kids watching. Perhaps the producers of “Two and a Half Men” might take note.

oLIVER


5 Comments

You have a very strange sense of humor.

Posted 3/23/2009 at 1:12 PM by Supplementary

My favorite episode is the one where they all die and Carol’s two husbands fight about who gets to own her and her offspring in the afterlife.

Posted 3/25/2009 at 2:28 PM by GoodbyeSickan

I thought that one was titled “don’t play ball in the house”?

Posted 8/13/2010 at 6:42 PM by tendollar4ways

@tendollar4ways –

Different episode.

Posted 8/14/2010 at 1:31 AM by SKANLYN

You really are seeking martrydom at the hands of some enraged Muslim housewife, aren’t you.

Posted 8/20/2010 at 12:1 AM by LoBornlytesThoughtPalace