The Angry Czeck

This was going to be a riveting, insightful, emotional and delicately-written post about what a forced-anal-iron-dildo-fuck Bush and his corporately sponsored administration did in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, but since the liberal media already did such a bang-up job on that score, the Angry Czeck decided to refocus his considerable rage to the hit TV show that once took the nation by storm, Sex in the City.

I don’t know a whole hell of a lot about Sex in the City. In fact, I can probably sum up what I know about Sex in the City in about half a dozen carefully numbered points: (1) Sex and the City features four attractive single women (all with distinctively different hair colors) who spend a great deal of time standing around fireplaces, drinking wine and bitching about how much it sucks to be single, attractive and living well in the most expensive city in America, (2) The star of Sex in the City never gets naked, (3) One character dates a guy named “Mr. Big,” (4) Shoes are a big deal on Sex in the City.

That pretty much sums up Sex in the City, I think. The plot doesn’t seem like much, and as far as I can tell, the only reason for a man to watch it is to wait for one of the four female leads (except for the big star) to show off her surgically enhanced hoots. Yet somehow, Sex in the City is a show people not only watch, but really enjoy. When TBS runs a promo about the show (on a station for which no hoots are allowed), Mrs. Angry always chortles at the punch lines with the same enthusiasm our nation’s President chuckles at his weekly Hi & Lois cartoon.

Tonight’s Forecast: a 75% chance for nudity.

I don’t get it. I don’t get Sex in the City. It’s not funny to me. It’s not wry or “so true” or even good for a smirk. I’d rather watch Three’s Company. I’d rather watch the “Teri” episodes of Three’s Company.

And then it occurred to me (in the way it must have occurred to Dick Cheney that Haliburton could make a nice chunk of change off Hurricane Katrina): There’s a lot of things the Angry Czeck doesn’t get.

Sure, when you read this educational blog, you get the feeling that the Angry Czeck has a pretty good kung-fu grip on things. But the girth of topics I don’t understand could almost fill a three-panel brochure. And if you think that knowledge doesn’t keep the Angry Czeck awake at night with clenched fists, then you got another think coming, Ace. Because when you don’t get something, you’re missing out on which the rest of the world profits.

For example, I don’t get how Garfield has lasted so long in the funny papers. Really, it’s the same fucking joke every week, only a little lamer. Even Jim Davis, the creator of Garfield, knows cat jokes aren’t funny, which is why he later branched out with U.S. Acres, which features (among other things) worms with teeth. I’ve never seen a coffee mug with the toothy worm on it.

Speaking of cats, I don’t get people who tell me that their cat “thinks it’s human.” No it doesn’t. Your cat doesn’t even know it’s a cat, nor would it know what to do with the knowledge even if it did. A cat’s IQ rivals that of the pair of pants you’re wearing. A cat’s priorities are to sleep, eat and too look pissed off. Just because your cat leaps onto your bed at night and takes up three-quarters of the bed doesn’t mean it has delusions of being human. It’s as genetically challenged as the rest of the lesser animals. Tell you what: The moment your shitting cat gets a job and starts laughing at Sex in the City, then the Angry Czeck will believe your cat thinks it’s human.

I don’t get why everyone has a hard-on for Target stores. People behave as though Target isn’t the money-grubbing, local-business wrecking, soul-sucking retail giant Wal-Mart has to spend billions in cheesy advertisements to convince us they’re not. I have friends who love Target so much, they can’t bear to even call it Target, because, well, “Target” sounds a little too retail, right? So they fool themselves by calling it “Tar-Jeh.” Frenchifying the name doesn’t make Target any less of a high-volume, low-cost super-chain. Buying a mass-produced blue toilet bowl brush designed by a bored architect doesn’t make you any more stylish, Picasso. It only makes you another person who bought something cheap while a locally owned business filed for Chapter 8. Why can’t you just admit that you are too stuck up to say “hi” to an elderly Wal-Mart greeter? I know I am. Those old people are creepy.

“I work here for the great health benefits. No benefits?
What do you mean no benefits?”

I don’t get people who get worked up over college football games. I don’t get the appeal of Chez-Its. I don’t get why the people who consider a cross word against the Iraq War as an act of treason are the same people who vehemently argue for the right to bear arms in the event of a sinister government takeover. I don’t get The Biggest Loser. Who the hell wants to watch fat people lose weight on TV? How about a show called The Biggest Shit, where constipated old men train for “the biggest bowel moment of their lives?” That would be a good show.

You know what I do get? Scrap-booking. You heard me. I get scrap-booking. It’s a good excuse to eat jars of peanut M&M;’s and drink boxes of Chardonnay, right? I don’t get how we’re going to pay for rebuilding a major metropolitan area and finance an endless war in a third-world country without raising taxes, though. Perhaps the super rich will volunteer to give up their massive tax breaks. If congress decides to reverse, say, the repeal of the estate tax, we’d generate nearly $300 billion in ten years, which would about cover the bill for Katrina and Iraq (and yes, motherfucker, I read that in Newsweek). I know that the estate tax is sort of a “double-tax,” and when my Angry Parents pass along, I sure as hell won’t want to pay it, but it seems like a pretty good idea right now. Doesn’t it? No?

I don’t understand why people who drink Diet Dr. Pepper are so nuts for Diet Dr. Pepper. I’ve known people to angrily leave fast food drive thru lines upon learning Diet Dr. Pepper isn’t on the menu. Why not order a Diet Pepsi or Diet Coke?

I know several people who first started smoking as adults, and I can’t figure out why. Why not spread some asbestoes on your hamburger tonight? Maybe it will taste good? Maybe not now, but later, when you’ve stopped hacking up blood and develop a real taste for it. I don’t understand Iraq War Logic, either. War supporters say we must support the war because we have brave troops fighting the war, and they have to be fighting for something, or their ultimate sacrifice becomes worthless. See, War Supporter, that’s the point, isn’t it? It’s got to be worth something. Get it? No? Maybe if we pile on, I don’t know, a thousand more blown-up bodies, it will suddenly be worth it? No? Three thousand? Aw hell, let’s go for an even 10 K.

I don’t get the nation’s fascination with Jennifer Anniston. We’re all supposed to feel very sorry for her because h
er husband, Brad Pitt, left her. I’m not a woman (as I am sure you have deduced by the manly tone of my manly writing), but I’m sure just about any woman in North America would count themselves lucky to have a few good years of waking up to Brad Pitt. No? You lie. You lie to the Angry Czeck. Recently, I read a headline that stated, “Jennifer Anniston tells Oprah she’s ready to date again.” I guess I’d better start working out. Maybe eat a few breath mints. Because, you know, Jennifer is probably seeking out a regular guy, on the account we so fucking care that her mega-star pool boy dropped her for an even better looking broad. (And yes, the Angry Czeck is making the call: Angelina Jolie is hotter than Jennifer Anniston.) See, Jennifer Anniston is going to be okay, people. She’s not really hurting. Because if you’re hurting, do you really share it with the nation’s wealthiest woman before an audience of millions? Jennifer is going to meet a very nice superstar like herself, we’ll all hold our breaths in hopes that he will propose with a very big diamond ring, they’ll get married, and then get divorced a year later. She will cite “irreconcilable differences” and he will quietly check himself into an expensive rehab clinic for “pain-pill dependency,” because nobody in Hollywood is every fucking hooked on H or model glue or crank. Nope. Some evil doctor got them hooked on pain pills while recuperating from some sort of fascinating movie stunt. It will be sad, and we’ll mourn for Jennifer again wondering if she’ll ever be happy, and she’ll live on some massive ranch on Montana and later surprise us with a children’s book.

This lady is no friend of the Angry Czeck.

You know what? Fuck what I wrote earlier. The Angry Czeck does get it after all. I guess I can relax now, knowing God is in His heaven and I still know everything. This was a real learning experience. For you.

The summer after my freshman year in college, I went to work for Burger King. In case you are not familiar with the advertising, Burger King is the franchise that promises to prepare your hamburger “your way.” This promise serves as both the strength and the weakness of Burger King. On the one hand, customers may elect to choose between any one of thousands of possible burger combinations. Whopper with mustard and onions only. Whopper with everything, but no mayo. Double Whopper with cheese, tomato, onion, lettuce, ketchup but no mustard. Literally, one would be hard pressed to have the same Whopper twice in a decade’s span.

Yet with this advantage comes a horrible flip side. A terrible toll to which all Burger King employees must pay. Few Burger King customers seem to understand that “having it your way” results in a longer wait time than one might endure from the King’s chief competitor, McDonald’s. (Just try ordering a Filet O’Fish without cheese, bro. Try it.) But when you order, say, a Junior Whopper with ketchup only, the kitchen help isn’t scraping lettuce and mustard off an ancient Whopper Jr. left beneath the heat lamps. They’re grilling that fucker fresh for you, ace. Just remember that, chief, the next time you feel like bullying a powerless teenager into giving you your bag of food for free.

This is but one of about half a dozen penetrating lessons the Angry Czeck learned while toiling for Burger King. How I came to be in the King’s employ is a lesson onto itself.

It was the Summer of 1993. The Angry Czeck had just concluded his first angry year of college at the citadel of wisdom, Arkansas State University (Considered by some circles as The Princeton of Northeast Arkansas). My brother and I (let’s call him “Jennifer”) had intended to spend the entire summer watching reruns of The Rockford Files, but these plans were foiled by my angry mother, who insisted that we earn a living. Having spent the three previous summers as a lifeguard at a local swimming pool, my menu of marketable skills was discouragingly succinct. Even my CPR and First Aid qualifications had lapsed. But once you’ve enjoyed the absolute power that comes with being a lifeguard, yoeman’s work holds little appeal. Jennifer and I privately resolved to remain perfectly unemployed while mindlessly applying for jobs without exerting the effort to secure a post.

In this area of deception, Jennifer proved to be the Angry Czeck’s superior. He concentrated his limited energy to applying for disc jockey positions in-and-around the Hot Springs listening area. Too dull to develop an inaction plan equally as fascinating, I had Jennifer drop me off at Burger King, leaving him free to harass a nearby radio station.

To my great chagrin, I discovered that Burger King was hiring. But I played it cool. With slouching indifference, I asked the cashier to produce an application. Misfortune would be my soulmate that summer, as the cashier proved to be none other than the franchise’s night manager, a red-maned woman that I would soon come to know as “Carol.”

“Come with me!” said Carol eagerly, dragging me like a hostage to an empty booth. An assistant manager appeared like Burger King magic and joined us. Together, they quizzed me like tag team game-show hosts.

“Have you ever worked in food services before?”
“Nope.”

“Have you ever run a cashier?”
“Nope.”

“Are you familiar with working with hot grease?”
“Nope.” To my immense relief, I was failing the interview splendidly. There was no fucking way I was Burger King material. I began to wonder how long I’d have to wait in the parking lot for Jennifer to pick me up.

“When can you start?”

My brain froze. They might as well have asked me to describe the shape and texture of my testicles.

“Uh…well…you know…right away…”

“Great!” said Carol, pumping my hand like a politician. “How about right now? You know, just to get you used to the register?”

As the assistant manager prepared my brand new punch card, I staggered out of Burger King to tell my brother that I had not only just gained employment, I had gained immediate employment. Jennifer did his best to disguise his glee. I asked him how things went with the radio station. “Man, they’re not even looking for interns!” he declared happily.

Employee Training at Burger King consists chiefly of watching a couple of videotapes. Some grim copywriter, crazed by the prospect of writing a lifetime’s worth of fast food training videos, tried to spice up the script with a far fetched scenario involving two teenage boys marooned on a dessert island (a result of a never-discussed shipwreck, the details of which shrouded in mystery). Hopelessly bored awaiting rescue, one boy pleads with the other to disclose the secrets of preparing Burger King delicacies, like Whoppers, The BK Big Fish (you may fondly remember the Big Fish as The Whaler), French fries and milkshakes. (“Come on! Tell me again how they make those shakes so good at Burger King!!”)

It soon became evident to the Angry Czeck that the unsaid ingredients to Burger King’s financial success were “Efficiency through Consistency.” For example, every Whopper, though made the customer’s way, is essentially prepared in the same manner to exacting standards across the board. A standard issue Whopper is made with two swirls of ketchup, with one swirl of mustard inside the two swirls of ketchup. Precise measurements of lettuce, onions, pickles and tomato were then added. Slapping a second square of cheese on a Whopper is a crime of the worst offense.

Burger King advertising would have you believe that big, juicy Frisbees of beef are grilled to dramatic perfection upon a mighty brick hearth. Fuck that, said Burger King. Rather, puny hamburger pucks are fed into a steel firebox via conveyor belt. In precisely two minutes, eight seconds, the puck appears at the other end of the conveyor fully charbroiled. Buns are toasted in a similar fashion.

My favorite was frying up a BK Big Fish (I ate about forty of those fuckers every week). Too prepare a BK Big Fish, you only had to toss it into the French Fry fryer for two minutes and fifteen seconds. Then presto, you were eating white-hot fish, my man.

Minimum wage plus your weight in these.

Sadly, there would be very little Whopper making in my Burger King career. Carol the Night Manager threw me right out front, manning the register. It was my understanding that a cash register had, like, a number pad and fun buttons to press like “SALE” and “REFUND.” Not the Burger King register. The Burger King register is a sort of coded “masterpad” that enables the cashier to ring up nearly any combination of food imaginable. If you ordered a Whopper Junior without pickles, you pressed WJr./X/Piks. Even George Bush could have operated it without error, though my register routinely failed to cash out for the first four weeks I worked there. (By the way, Burger King managers are much more forgiving when your register contains more money than it should, rather than less.)

One day, a ma
n without teeth approached my register and ordered a “Raahhh…rah rah!” Shit, I had no idea what that meant. I just kept staring into the toothless hole that was his mouth and pleasantly asked him to repeat his order, like, five times. I nearly had the old guy write his order on a pad of paper, when suddenly his words became clear: “Whopper! Jay R!” The man wanted a Whopper Jr.

After three weeks manning the cash register, it came to my attention that everybody in the kitchen hated my guts. Not even the Angry Czeck is comfortable with people hating his guts. I forget exactly how I came across this piece of intelligence, but I do remember that once I knew, it was pretty plain that everybody in the kitchen wanted me dead. I took my concerns to the Lesbian Night Manager, who I quickly learned also hated my guts.

“You’re too much of a pretty boy,” she sneered at me. I asked her to explain.

“Listen, when somebody tells you that you have pretty eyes, just say ‘thank you,’ and leave it at that,” she said. Of course, this didn’t explain anything. So I pressed her for clarity.

“You smile too much,” she revealed. “And you keep bugging the kitchen people with things like, ‘I need a Whopper, no onions!’ It bugs people, okay?”

At least the last portion of her managerial analysis made sense. See, when somebody orders a Whopper no onions, they expect the cashier to produce one from his goddamn pants. Customer’s get irritated quick when they actually have to wait a second for their Whopper Their Way. To placate waiting customers from descending into a cashier-killing frenzy, the key is to appear like you really give a goddamn about their fucking sandwich. So every now and then, you turn your head to the kitchen and shout, “Need a Whopper, no onions, ASAP!” But shit! Then the kitchen people start hating your guts, and soon they’re sandbagging your orders just to make the Lesbian Night Manger think you’re a pretty boy. It took me a couple weeks to develop the delicate balance that repaired my street cred with the kitchen guys while preventing a lynching from irate customers. For that, I got minimum wage.

With a pretty-boy attitude and a few curt suggestions,
your Burger King kitchen will look a lot like this.

In just a few day’s time, I began to despise hungry people, who are an unpleasant lot. The lowest man on society’s totem pole is the Burger King employee. Because when you walk into a Burger King, you have an instant stable of hapless bitches at your command. It doesn’t matter who you might be. Are you a lumberjack with an anus full of herpes sores? Visit Burger King for an inoculation of self-esteem! Perhaps you’ve just been released from prison for forcibly violating pre-teen boys. Not a problem. Just make a cashier cry for failing to super size your fries, and nobody will even notice your electronic prison anklet. When you are drawing a paycheck from Burger King, you are at the end of your tether, and everybody knows it. One man, his softball uniform dirty and sweaty from a day on the diamond, staggered into Burger King with his young son in tow. He didn’t want the Value Meal, but demanded a Last Action Hero promotional cup anyway. You couldn’t get the Last Action Hero promotional cup without first ordering a Value Meal, and that’s exactly what I told him. Mr. Softballs went nuts, and he cussed me out in full display of his little boy. What a terrific lesson for the youths. That’s how grown-ups get their Last Action Hero cups, son. They act like complete assholes.

The most reliable man working at Burger King was Mike. He ran the kitchen, and he was more than forty years old. Like me, Mike worked the night shift, which meant he rarely got home before one in the morning. I later learned that he maintained a day job, too, as a custodian at a trailer park. I asked him why he’d subject himself to brutal Burger King nights when he had a perfectly good day job. “Can’t stand my wife!” he replied.

The cashier can hear you when you say something mean about them at the drive thru intercom. And before you say something macho and ridiculous, like “Good! I’m glad those idiots can hear me,” just remember who may or may not be sticking his greasy thumbprint in the middle of your burger patty, genius. Take my advice and keep your opinions for the highway. Oh, and remember that “Sprite” sounds a lot like “Fries.” And if you zip off without paying for your bag of food, Capone, Burger King Management takes it out of the cashier’s paycheck. No shit.

It bemuses me when I am with someone who becomes enraged with the quality of fast food service. I knew one guy who claimed to have thrown a milkshake through a drive-thru window, just because it wasn’t the right flavor. Why we expect sterling service from bumbling teenagers getting paid the very least amount of money possible as approved by our Republican government, I cannot understand. The smiling, cheerful motherfuckers you see portraying Burger King “Associates” in commercials are a complete fiction, America. In reality, they don’t give a rat’s ass about you or your family. They are given one, ill-fitting blue shirt for a uniform, and are then told a second shirt will cost $15. Furthermore, it is the employee’s responsibility to purchase their own black pants and black shoes. Failure to adhere to the Burger King uniform will result in immediate termination. Burger King employees cater to an ill-mannered clientele who view the person behind the counter as something less than human. Meanwhile, the managers gleefully remind employees that their actions are constantly being videotaped to discourage theft. Think about that before you throw a self-righteous hissy fit when you mistakenly receive a Coke instead of a Diet Coke.

It was humbling for a 19-year-old college pretty boy to learn that most people working at Burger King did so to earn money for things as basic as rent. My night manager, Carol, put in long hours because her husband could not. He was undergoing chemotherapy. Mike might have hated his wife, but he still needed the paycheck to survive, just like nearly everybody else I eventually counted as fellow confederates clinging to the fringe of society. I was too ashamed to telling my co-workers why I worked the night shift at Burger King, which was too earn some spending cash for a family trip to Florida. I was embarrassed to say that I would be spending my autumn and spring studying American folklore and Shakespearean Contemporaries. My Lesbian Night Manager had pegged me right: I was a pretty boy, but by the end of my shift, I felt somewhat redeemed, with my hair stuck to my face and the shine of burger grease across my forehead. I was not completely exonerated. I was still, after all, the same arrogant Angry Czeck that shirks manual labor and too often refuses to extend a helping hand to his fellow man. But if my sack of fast food should not contain the correct size of French Fries, I calmly ask that the order be corrected, and I thank the staff pleasantly upon my exit.

I enjoy getting into verbal spars with opponents with retarded debating skills. Not because I win. Winning is not possible with these people. You don’t argue with the Debating Retard to win. You do it because idiocy-in-action is amusing, especially when it’s on high-volume display before friends and peers.

And you can bet that the argument will be on display when the Debating Retard is involved, because Debating Retards a) always take the easy argument, b) mistake shrill volume for a well-hone argument, c) usually surrounds himself with a pack of dumbasses to second his ill-conceived opinions and d) become emotional like 5-year-old girls no matter what the topic.

Until they open their mouths, it’s not easy to identify a Debating Retard. Many Debating Retards live normal lives performing mundane activities like rotating tires, eating frozen yogurt and listening to Lionel Richie albums. The easiest way to out a Debating Retard is to besmirch a beloved sporting icon:

YOU: (Former San Francisco 49er head coach) Bill Walsh certainly had a good run in the 1980’s, but one cannot call the man “a genius” when he happened to have the greatest quarterback and wide receiver ever to play the game on his roster.

DEBATING RETARD: Have you ever won a Super Bowl?

YOU: No.

DEBATING RETARD: (loud, and with a smug look) THEN SHUT UP!

The Debating Retard commands a number of colorful phrases to cement his argument, like “’Nuff said!” and “That’s what I thought!” and “Talk to the hand!” If you attempt to circumnavigate the Debating Retard with reason and logic, the Debating Retard will just repeat what he or she said previously, only much louder:

YOU: True, I never won a Super Bowl, but I can’t see how that disqualifies me from weighing in on ––

DEBATING RETARD: Excuse me…HAVE YOU EVER WON A SUPER BOWL?!

YOU: Like I said, no ––

DEBATING RETARD: ‘Nuff said!

Notice that you will never receive an argument defending the Debating Retard’s premise (in this case, certifying Bill Walsh as a legitimate genius). That would require insight and thought. Instead, the Debating Retard elects to key in on the obvious and maintain his ground no matter what. He’s like cement.

The patron saint of the Debating Retard

Of course, even intelligent people can de-evolve into Debating Retards when confronted with specific topics. Democrats are a prime example.

Most Democrats I know are a pretty sharp lot. Especially if the area of expertise concerns computer operating systems, science fiction movies, or comic book characters. Democrats become fucking Daniel Webster when it comes to dissecting the philosophy surrounding The Force or weighing in on the pros and cons of Internet file sharing. But when it comes to politics, look out! Five-year-old-girls coming through! Here’s how a normally clear-headed Democrat assesses the pros and cons of the Bush Administration:

DEMOCRAT DEBATING RETARD: Bush is stupid!

YOU: I hardly believe that a man who has peaked at the very pinnacle of power can be classified as “stupid.”

DDR: Whuddoya mean? BUSH IS A MORON!

YOU: I’m not convinced. He fooled an entire nation into going to war against a third-world country, and with a few cleverly selected words, managed to curtail the very people who elected him by weaving a cocoon of paranoia and fear to further enable his sinister allegiances with Saudi Arabia.

DDR: That’s what I said! BUSH IS STUPID! Talk to the hand!

As bad as Democrat Debating Retards are, Republican Debating Retards are worse, as they tend to hone their arguments to single-word punchlines, like “Whitewater!” and “Lewinski-gate!” and “9/11!” and “Socialism!” and “Patriotism!” Here’s how a retarded debate shakes with a Republican Debating Retard:

YOU: Seeing that Iraq’s involvement with 9/11 appears be little more than a revenge-dream for a gunslinger commander-in-chief, I can’t say I can lend my support to an Administration that so willingly fabricates fictions and masquerades them as tenets for war.

RDR: The Clinton Administration bombed a pharmaceutical company!

YOU: Right. Yes. That’s true.

RDR: That’s what I thought!

YOU: Uh…that’s what did you think?

RDR: WHITEWATER! NUFF SAID!

Most frustrating is the Debating Retard’s enthusiasm for celebration, a result of the Debating Retard’s refusal to allow for any chance for defeat. The more you calmly inject reason into the debate, the more shrill the Debating Retard becomes, until he unleashes his own personal WMD, the Moronic Declaration of Victory:

YOU: Despite your ill-mannered shouting, you hav
e yet to supply compelling evidence to convince me that the moon is made of green cheese.

DEBATING RETARD: And YOU have no reason to make me believe it ain’t! I WIN!

YOU: How did you win? What about these lunar photos —

DR: (shouting to people milling about) Hey! Look at the dumbass who doesn’t believe the moon is made of green cheese! YOU’RE DUMB! YOU’RE DUMB! LOOK! HE’S DUMB!

YOU: Please get your big finger out of my face and let me speak! Stop dancing! Put your shirt back on!

DR: YOU ARE DUMB! NUFF SAID! I WIN!

Your inclination may be to channel the spirit of Robert Mitchum and wordlessly punch the Debating Retard in the face. That would be cruel, as the Debating Retard cannot help what he is.

The best advice is that, once you realize that you are faced with a Debating Retard, simply close your eyes and walk away. The Debating Retard will believe that he won. But that was going to happen anyway. Just walk away, and make yourself a sandwich or crack open a soft drink.

Or punch yourself in the nuts, I don’t care.

***

You’re a snob. At least about something. We all are, to be fair about it. And it’s okay. Snob away, you stuck up son of a bitch. Being a snob means you’ve drawn the line, even if that line lacks substance and relevance. Don’t like Pontiacs? Fair enough. Prefer a cabernet over a merlot? Free country, pal. Are you a KILOmeter man or a kill-OM-eter man? Some people have a passionate preference.

I once got into a ridiculous argument with a good friend about the pronunciation of “Porshe.” I preferred the more blue-collar, single-syllable version, while my friend insisted on tacking the “uh” at the end. I told him he sound pretentious. He said I sound like a redneck idiot. Were levelheaded women not in attendance, the debate might have developed into fisticuffs.

My friend in question is a Pronunciation Snob. He’s also a Surround Sound Snob, a Pasta Snob, and a mild Computer Snob. On these topics, he has constructed his own thrown and crowned himself king. Opinions from others are unsolicited offerings from uneducated serfs.

Everybody is a snob about something. I have friends who are Fake Breast Snobs. They view silicon breasts in the same light as anal warts and Ricky Martin. They claim to be able to spot a fake breast from as high as the space shuttle, and insist that to handle one is like touching plutonium. Morons, I say. The Angry Czeck is an enthusiastic supporter of fake breasts. Furthermore, I wish I had a couple just to screw onto the dashboard of my car, you know, so I’d have something to do during traffic jams. Were it socially acceptable, I’d replace my own flabby chest with a set of fake breasts just to keep me perpetually amused. The Angry Czeck is no Fake Breast Snob.

You’re already acquainted with my fascinating views on Barbecue Snobs, but have you ever met a Macintosh Snob? They’re they guys who drone endlessly about the altruistic virtues of Apple computers, citing its simplistic operating system as proof that Steve Jobs is George Fucking Washington. Macintosh Snobs wage a seething, one-sided war against the remainder of the computing world, who have no idea why Macintosh Snobs are so stuck up. My brother (let’s call him “Marcia”) made a good observation. Marcia said that Apple computers are to Macintosh Snobs what the Civil War is to Southerners. In the South, people are nuts for the Civil War. They debate on alternate universe outcomes. They praise the Confederacy’s superior gamesmanship. The lament on opportunities squandered. Meanwhile, modern Northerner’s can barely tell you what year the Civil War was fought. Many have a vague notion that Nazi’s were involved. See, they don’t care. Neither do people computing on a Dell. Computers aren’t a culture. They’re a tool. PC-based people are just happy their equipment turns on in the morning.

“While you’re waiting for Mac compatible software,
sucker, I’m banging supermodels!”

My wife is an American Car Snob. My brother is a Movie Snob. I have a pal who suffers from a unique form of snobbery, the Beatle Snob. With little prompting, he’ll corner you for half-an-hour with a much practiced argument for why The Beatles are better than any band in the world. First of all, you’re not making much of a leap when you say “I like the Beatles.” That’s like saying you enjoy sex or you like breathing. How about making a case for Electric Light Orchestra? Or Christopher Cross? Don’t tell me how terrific the While Album is. Try defending 4 from Foreigner. Then you’ll have the Angry Czeck’s respect.

The Angry Czeck is a big snob, too. My balls are big enough to allow such self-effacing admissions. I’m pretty snobby about movies and books. I’m also a vocal Backwards Parking Snob. Really, what the fuck do people think when they’re wasting the Angry Czeck’s time parking backwards in spaces? Do they believe the arduous effort parking backwards will be rewarded with a zippy getaway later in the day? Or are you so conceited that you must force the entire parking lot to sit and watch you clumsily park your SUV so crooked in its space that nobody can park next to you? Quit fucking around, you colossal assholes, and fucking park!

The Beer Snob bugs me sometimes, too (though not as much as Wine Snobs). I mean, the Angry Czeck is not above ordering an overly expensive brew on occasion, but the Beer Snob is totally incapable of buying a six-pack of beer that costs less than $10. The Beer Snob is anchored with all sorts of Byzantine reasoning. American beer is swill. I like to TASTE my beer. Pilsners are for girls. Shit, just shutup and drink your beer, man! I swear, Beer Snobs will defend a homebrew even if it tastes like a Honda tire. (Then again, have you ever been to one of those bars that feature 5000 beers on taps only to find a couple guys sipping on Coors Lite? What better way to provoke a wordless punch in the face from a disgusted Robert Mitchum?)

Christ, will you just drink it already?

The topics for snobbery are almost endless. Some are more volatile than others. Ever besmirch a College Sports Snob? Before you do, remember it’s useful to know how to escape a headlock. My favorite is the College Sports Snob who didn’t even attend the college they would gladly donate all their bone marrow to. Here’s a revelation: COLLEGE ATHLETES DON’T GIVE A RAT’S ASS ABOUT YOU OR YOUR FAMILY. It’s difficult to accept, but true.

DICK: Morning, George. But enough pleasantries.

GEORGE: Leaping Lizards! Can’t you see I’m trying to listen to Little Orphan Annie on the radio?

DICK: Shut up. Today’s a good day. We finally eradicated all those stupid programs that socialist idiot Roosevelt started to increase the country’s moral.

GEORGE: He wanted to build D-A-M-S. Doesn’t he know we’re a predominately Christian nation? Silly crippled man!

DICK: We’ll never know. Our secret Russian allies say he’s still busting rocks in Siberia.

GEORGE: Rumsfield sure know how to handle socialist scum! Help me with my cufflinks, Dick. I have an unpublicized meeting with my family’s longtime business partners, the Hitlers.

DICK: Just make sure my former company receives those lucrative German rocket contracts so my stock options go through the roof.

GEORGE: You bet, boss!

ROVE: (busting in) Gee whiz! The Orientals just bombed Pearl Harbor!

GEORGE: Crap! Let’s attack!

DICK: (mock falsetto) “Let’s attack.” You idiot. Who are we going to attack?

GEORGE: …the Orientals?

(Fifteen minutes of savage bitch slapping)

DICK: We can’t attack the Orientals, idiot. We already sold them half of Florida, remember? Not even Rove can keep that out of the press. Karl, give me your handkerchief. Clean yourself up, George. You disgust me.

GEORGE: So whom do we attack?

DICK: England, of course.

ROVE: Right! Those kidney bean eating twists will get a fist-full of Uncle Sam!

GEORGE: But England is our friend!

DICK: Get your head out of your ass. England attacked us twice. Besides, it’s a fact that some Orientals live in England. That’s the evidence we need to cement a declaration of war!

ROVE: The American people will think it’s a Cracker Jack idea! Anybody who disagrees is a card-carrying socialist!

DICK: That why I love you, Karl. Bend over. Get Hoover in here with his camera.

GEORGE: I want to leave right now.

DICK: No you don’t. Hold my hamster.

FINIS