The Angry Czeck

This was going to be a penetrating and insighful post about how the Bush Administration is staffed by a sinister cabal of brazen liars and sham artists, but instead I thought I’d share with you some of the art I did before and during college.

I used to dabble a little. Nothing serious. Eventually, I had to get a job and pay the bills. I hope you like some of this stuff. Lots of people say it’s pretty good and all, but I don’t know. Now that I can step back from it, and view it with an objectionable eye, I can really see the flaws in my technique. Anyway, take a look:

You trust The Angry Czeck to bring you the most up-to-date Angry Chimpanzee news, and now you got it! Read, and scream, to learn what the sinister Monkey Nation has bestowed upon humanity once again!

From The AP: Chimps Sought in Attack on U.S. Tourists in Sierra Leone

“Police hunted Monday for chimpanzees that escaped from a Sierra Leone preserve and mauled a group of American and local sightseers, killing one man and injuring four people.

The Sierra Leonean driver died as the chimps ripped his body apart, and three Americans were treated at a hospital for minor injuries, said Oliver Somasa, a top police official.

Another Sierra Leonean man in the group had his hand amputated after the mauling, Somasa said. U.S. officials had no further comment. The Americans were in Sierra Leone to help build a new embassy building, Somasa said.”

Don’t you get it, man? Don’t you see the plan? Chimps have 98% of our genes. They are eating the remaining 2%! Run! Flee into the mountains! Don’t stop for old people or loved ones! It’s every human for himself!

Meanwhile, the grisly trials of the mighty St. James, his uni-thumbed wife LaDonna, and their pet chimp Moe continue! Click to witness the lastest stomach-churning development in the Face-Eating Chimpanzee Saga! -AC

As the Hispanic community takes to the streets, demanding free citizenship and the right to be exploited by produce farmers, it seems to the Angry Czeck that the obvious solution to this “Latino Crisis” is being roundly ignored by lawmakers and talking heads.

Let’s make Mexico the 51st state. (I know that Canada is already the 51st state, and Iraq is in line to become the 52nd, but hear me out.)

Would anyone object? Certainly not the Mexican government, whose response to the USA’s latest attempt to strongly criminalize paperless citizens seems to be, “Whoh! Hey! We don’t want them here, either!”

And surely the Mexican people would embrace such an annexation. After all, thousands of Mexican nationalists cross the border each year in hopes to acquire a slice of American pie. Why not simply erase the border entirely, and make Mexico the United States? It just makes sense. We already have New Mexico. Why not take the rest?

Of course, shortsighted Harvard economists will argue that supplying health care to an influx of millions of people (who can no longer be allowed to earn a $1.50 and hour) will cripple corporate America, but these college eggheads lack the Angry Czeck’s brilliance and sagacity. Mexico, the 51st state under the Angry Czeck Plan, would be home to millions of hardworking people who are now tax eligible.

Furthermore, because many Mexicans are impoverished, Republicans could enjoy a fertile pool from which to stock its military. The exploitation could continue! But this time, it would be legal. Speaking of military, acquiring Mexico would give us a strategic launching pad from which to attack Venezuela, suddenly the greatest threat to freedom in the Western Hemisphere. That would send a strong signal to Brazil and Chili, no?

Pancho Villa. Now he’s one of us!

The advantages are endless. How long have we clinched our American fists with envy, knowing that we could never duplicate the success of Tijuana? Now Tijuana could be ours! American college kids wouldn’t have to “bounce across the border” for whores, drugs, and liquor. It would be right there waiting for them in the good old USA!

Imagine how handsome an American flag would appear fluttering over cabanas all over the former country of Mexico. Think how beautiful the Star Spangled Banner would sound in a bull fighting arena! The Angry Czeck can hardly wait to taste his first Corona bearing the stamp, Made in the USA.

The issue of outsourcing would completely vanish from political agendas. Now all those American corporations who fled to Mexico can be reunited with their own countrymen! Hooray! Better yet, making Mexico the 51st state would send the ultimate “fuck you” to France, who had the same idea about 150 years ago but failed miserably. (Why? Because they are France!) Hey, France! This is how you subjugate a country, you soap-hating morons!

Annexing Mexico would allow our gregarious American nature to flower. When a person from the former country of Mexico says, “¡Hola, señor!” you may patiently correct him or her by saying, “Yo! I think you mean, ‘Hi, old dude!’” And we can rectify the arcane conditions that have anchored the Mexican people for centuries – namely upside-down question marks and those squiggly things they scratch over the letter “n.”

In exchange for adding more people to our bulging list of social security recipients, we’ll have unlimited license to put an American stamp on formerly Mexican institutions! Envision a new and colossal country where men and women walk the streets of New York City wearing trendy sombreros bearing the Nike logo, or attending a mariachi concert headlined by Kid Rock. Now that’s American!

What would you rather see during halftime of the Superbowl?
The Rolling Stones? Or this!

Families won’t go out for Mexican food anymore. We’ll dine like brothers on American food! And criminals will no longer have the option of “escaping to Mexico.” They’ll have to run all the way to Guatemala! That’s what I call being tough on crime.

Sure, the next time David Letterman identifies something as “being shaky as a Mexican space shuttle,” he’ll only be insulting the USofA, but at least Southerners will have their own Southerners to make fun of, so it’s a wash. Plus, the people of the former country of Mexico can finally reclaim the Alamo! Just look at it! It’s yours again!

Let’s forget about granting citizenship to just the Mexicans sneaking over the border. Let’s make every Mexican an American citizen, whether they want to be one or not! Having no choice is a choice easy to make, that’s what I always say.

+++

The Angry Czeck is a founding member of the Malvern High School Golf Team. Fewer than 10,000 people live in Malvern, which in my lifetime has seen no less than four Wal-Marts. The town’s original Wal-Mart, for decades a cavernous and barren retail tomb, lay at the bottom of a hill off the side of Page Avenue. When one boy challenged another to a fistfight, it was with the words, “Meet me at the Wal-Mart parking lot.” Fights were generally scheduled during the lunch hour, and the combatants sparred inside a steel circle comprised of Ford Mustangs, Chevrolet pickups, and Dodge Talons.

Malvern is not a golf community. At least, not in the sense once might envision a golf community. Malvern maintains one golf course, the Malvern Country Club, which in my high school years featured only nine holes. The course layout is unimaginative and not especially challenging, but the course itself is well cared for. Though the geography is flat and not difficult to walk, many members supply their own golf carts, which are housed in a long shed.

How the Angry Czeck became a member of the Malvern High School Golf Team began with my unceremonious resignation from the school’s baseball team my junior year. In need of a school athletic credit my senior year, I became intrigued by the school’s newest offerings: tennis and golf. I dabbled in both sports, and while I was a marginally better tennis player, I opted for the more leisurely pursuit.

In addition to myself, four others joined the inaugural team: My brother (who we’ll call “Sally”), Bert W., Jason C., and a junior, DJ K. To be honest, we were not kind to DJ and we snobbishly refused him access to our inner circle. This was a result of our natural tendency for mean-spiritness, but it didn’t help that DJ rolled his golf clubs along on a pull-cart when the rest of us opted to sling our golf bags on our shoulders.

We hardly resembled a golf team, by way of both skill and appearance. Rather than handsome Lecoste golf shirts, pressed kaki shorts and spiked golf shoes, we wore faded t-shirts, loud Bahamas shorts, and the same basketball sneakers we wore to our classes. Our golf bags were third generation hand-me downs, as were most of our clubs. Sally teed off with a tour-discredited aluminum three-wood. Unable to control a driver, I usually approached the tee with a rusty two-iron. Bert and Jason were fairly adroit with drivers, but suffered mightily with long irons. A good nine-hole score from any one of us began with the numeral “5.”

Golf was not a real passion for any member of the inaugural Malvern High School Golf Team. Bert was a talented guitarist who practiced more with his heavy-metal band than with his short game. Jason owned a Nissan pick-up truck and was obsessed with obtaining computer chips that would increase its horsepower. Sally and I enjoyed golf, but we were both wrestling with a menu of issues outside of lowering our handicaps. Rather than discuss methods for improving our swings, the founding fathers of Malvern public school golf devoted most discussions to strategies than involved conquering the chastity of the comely females in the Junior Class (in that regard, we were even less successful than making par).

Our coach was a fireplug-shaped man who was highly regarded for his skill in instructing defensive schemes for the high school football team. Coach was a man of great intensity who broadcasted his disappointment with glowering stares and extended bursts of silence. It is a fair and accurate assessment to make that Coach despised the inaugural Malvern High School Golf Team. Not once did he offer anything in way of useful instruction. Rather, he streamlined his job description to sullenly driving the team to a handful of golf meets. The only time he spoke to us as a group was when I made the mistake of telling the team an off-color joke, which earned me a barking rebuttal (“That’s…not…funny.”) underscored by an icy glare.

Fortunately, no one joined the golf team for instruction. We joined to A) get out of class early for “practice,” and B) to take advantage of free golf at the exclusionary Malvern Country Club. Nothing beats teeing off at Number One knowing that the majority of your classmates were currently puzzling over gerunds or the Pythagorean Theorem. The Angry Czeck sliced his two-iron into the woods with glee.

Practice consisted chiefly of our members following grisly shanks into the woods and misfiring scuffed-up golf balls hundreds of yards past the green. On the seventh hole, an accessible Par 3, we disrupted the concentration of our teammates by colorfully describing the way we imagined certain school girls looked naked. The main result was usually a banana-slice to the electrified barbwire fence that bordered the course. (“I hit that shot with two clubs!”)

Because the Malvern Country Club was plagued by swarms of mosquitoes, the inaugural Malvern High School Golf Team devised a novel insect repellant: cigars! These were not the fine cigars you carefully select from humidors. I’m talking gas station White Owls, my man. Good smoking in southern Arkansas! Once out of view from the clubhouse, we’d fire up a few White Owls and listen to the mosquitoes howl in agony. Smoking a White Owl was like inhaling a burning tire, but we looked cool, and that’s what was important. During golf meets, (perhaps after recording an “8” on the first Par 3 of the round), a member of the inaugural Malvern High School Golf Team would produce a White Owl from his frayed bag and nonchalantly light it before a forum of awestruck opponents. “Your coach lets you smoke?” stammered a thunderstruck foe. Our school representative would inhale deeply, expel a cloud of poison into the atmosphere, and coldly reply, “No.”

That was the only way the inaugural Malvern High School Golf Team earned respect from opposing schools, because we sure weren’t earning it with our play. The Angry Czeck takes pride in never shanking on an opening tee, though the remainder of my round was a comedic potpourri of chilly-dips, skanks, banana slices, blades, and skulls that skittered across the finer golf courses of Southern Arkansas. Opposing schools regarded us leeringly as we leaped out of our school van, our multi-colored shorts brazenly challenging the staid establishment of tans and solid hues. Sometimes, I wore black dress socks to underscore my flair for fashion, a move that only deepened Coach’s silence.

I might have predicted how the golf season would end after one the next-to-last scheduled meet of the year. I was inserted into the A-Flight (on the strength of the “56″ I recorded in practice the day before), where I became reunited with an old friend named Travis, who had transferred to another school the year before. Travis relaxed once he realized I wasn’t challenging for the Clubhouse Cup anytime soon, and we played the nine holes while exchanging stories and jokes. After we completed the last hole, my coach approached us from the clubhouse, his face unusually warm and animated. At last, I thought, Coach is recognizing me for my efforts! When he reached us, Coach beamed, “How did the course play…Travis?” I then watched as Coach sauntered away with a player from the opposition. It was then that I knew my golf coach was a complete and utter bastard.

It was widely known that, by virtue of existing, our high school was to compete in the state golf tournament. The inaugural Malvern High School Golf Team looked forward to this event with a mixture of dread and excitement. We were well aware that our limited skills were an embarra
ssment to ourselves and to the school. But a golf trip is a golf trip, and that alone relieved our humiliation somewhat. It was with great chagrin when we learned that winning a spot on the state tournament team had become an open competition.

The best golfers in the Malvern public high school system happened to be members of the high school baseball team. The baseball season coincided with the golf season, so those players were unavailable…until the golf state tournament. The injustice of this was transparent, even to the ringer participants handpicked by Coach. The Coach, however, pretended that this arrangement was fair. In fact, he could not conceal his glee, knowing that his undesirable team was soon to be jettisoned of its loyal players for a revised scorecard of more able ringers.

The best scores from a weekend 18 at the Malvern Country Club would determine who would be allowed to participate in the state tournament. It would have been easy to fabricate a fictional scorecard, but I was raised to believe in the spirit of fair play, and not the edict to win at all costs. I played as best I could. Suffice to say, Sally and I were eliminated from the team. Bert and Jason, thanks to a better than average round, were magnanimously allowed to remain on the team for which they played all year. Two baseball players were then added to the roster.

Coach’s handpicked team faired poorly in the tournament. Bert and Jason returned to school with fresh tales of horrendous play and secret cigar smoking. The Angry Czeck took secret satisfication knowing that my unjust omission from the team earned my heartless Coach nothing. Despite his sinister plot that ejected me and Sally from our rightfull positions on the team, Coach once again drove a school van full of losers back to Malvern. He was a failure as a cheater as he was a failure as a coach.

I might have told Coach that to his face, but he had once threatened to stuff me into a locker, so I chose life instead.

Men never forget their first car. In fact, most of us remember our first car being much better than it actually was. The first car I owned was a 1972 Grand Prix, Model J. My brother (we’ll call him “Kandi”) and I pooled our money together in our 17th year and bought it. It was a dull green with a black top. The interior was green, too, and it featured bucket seats and a wrap-around cockpit that was a testimony to its speed, which was considerable. An enormous chrome grill on its font end promised to eat any Toyota that merged in its path.

The Prix had one bitch’in dashboard. One of my favorite aspects of the dashboard was the giant, round speedometer. The very top of the speedometer (the center-speed, if you will) registered 100 MPH. Not the 55 MPH you see in cars today. One hundred motherfucking miles per hour. What audacity! When you depressed the accelerator of the 1972 Grand Prix, you could see the gas gauge slowly drop to E. The biggest challenge for me and Kandi was scraping up enough cash every week to keep fuel in the 30-gallon tank.

Few in my social circle appreciated the poetry of the 1972 Grand Prix. It was mocked for its outdated design, poor gasoline consumption, and less than trendy color scheme. There were some who took to calling it The Pickle. But those Dodge Talon-driving Philistines had never experienced the singular joy that comes with peeling out in the loose gravel of a Baptist church parking lot –– completely shirtless –– jamming to an 8-Track of Creedence Clearwater Revival. That’s the best kind of fun in Southern Arkansas, my man.

The 1972 Grand Prix boasted a colossal 400 engine beneath its massive hood. In idle, it didn’t purr like a pussy cat; it chug-chug-chugged with a dark baritone full of menace. Indestructible chrome bumpers on its front and back ends proved it meant business. There was enough space in the trunk for five dead bodies, and possibly room for three more in the gaps between the engine and chassis. The back seat was a vinyl love-sofa you will never find in a Havertys.

1972 Pontiac Grand Prix

The Original Anger Mobile

The 1972 Grand Prix had one weakness, and that was a rather light rear end. Many a time, Kandi and I found our badass selves fishtailing onto the expressway or shimming through a tight turn. When you’re 17, that’s kinda fun. Except one day, after school, I was racing the Grand Prix home to catch Game 5 of the 1991 American League Divisional Series when, on the last turn of the highway, I lost control and fishtailed us right into a ditch. The force of the crash slightly bent the 1972 Grand Prix in half. Kandi and I were not hurt. Which was too bad, as I could have used the sympathy.

I had killed the 72 Grand Prix. Khandi was nonplussed. I sill owe him a Grand Prix. The following years would see in my possession a parade of lesser vehicles, none of which ever matched the 72 Grand Prix for charisma, muscle, and charm.

1970 Oldsmobile Delta 88

The two best things about this car was 1) it ran like a Mercedes when it rained really hard, and 2) it came with a grocery sack full of free 8-Track cartridges.

1973 Chevrolet Monte Carlo

If you ever wanted to test your manhood, just sit on the black, vinyl upholstery in the dead of summer wearing nothing but cutoff jeans. You will scream.

1967 Chevrolet Impala

I can’t tell you how many black dudes approached me at gas stations to tell me they had a cousin who used to own a car just like this. Someting else you won’t find in the owner’s manual: When the car stalled, the brakes ceased to function. It stalled a lot.

1980 Ford Thunderbird

My version was a two-tone red on tan. Somebody called it The Big Valentine. When a guy shouted at me from across a parking lot, “What’s the word, Thunderbird!” I knew it was time to sell.

1993 Pontiac Grand Prix

I was yearning for some of the old magic, but 1993 ain’t 1972. Can you believe I passed on a 1992 Altima for this? This was my first car that didn’t feature an 8-Track player.

1983 Nissan 280Z

This was my Angry Dad’s mid-life crisis car, but he gave it to me for a ridiculous discount when I really needed some wheels. When you drive one of these babies, you always Feel Like Make’in Love.

2002 Honda Accord

Yawn. The mileage is good. And it’s got a CD player in it. Plus you could drop it out of the Space Shuttle and still drive it to work. Yawn.