The Angry Czeck

Around the second or third grades, my brother (we’ll call him “Malone”) invented the Super Specialized Assault Attack Team, or S.S.A.A.T. Never mind the leisurely nature of the moniker. This was a team of action, punctuated by violence and one-liners. The roster consisted of ten boys from our grade-school class, and the team was led by none other than the cagey Malone himself (the Angry Czeck was, generously, the official second in command). This is how the roster ultimately shakes out:

1. Malone: Master tactician and good at everything
2. The Angry Czeck: Ace pilot and master of disguise
3. Jason: SEAL operative and explosives expert
4. Raphael: Expert in booby-traps and sabotage
5. Leslie: Computer wiz/communications
6. Jamie: Heavy artillery and flamethrower
7. David: Heavy artillery
8. Casey: Small weapons expert
9. Albany: Ninja
10. Danny: Daredevil pilot

Not a bad team, admits the Angry Czeck. The SEAL guy, Jason, who despite being a big, puss-dripping dick, was the most popular guy in class. I always liked that Jason was the frogman. Sort of made him the Aquaman of the team. It was only sweet-justice that Jason became the least interesting character. We gave him a spear gun to make him more versatile on land, but he was still reduced to blowing up ships in the harbor. SSAAT made its debut in the form of a third-grade spelling assignment. The goal was to compose a work of fiction employing that week’s spelling words. My brother Malone stupefied the entire class with an adventure that not only featured half the class, but offered fisticuffs in the bargain.

The villain in SSAAT stories was Fiz Nuinski, a man of mysterious nationality, immense intellect, and a yen for world domination. Sometimes he was portrayed as an overweight bully who didn’t seem to have the right leadership skills to command a platoon of evil troops. Other times, Fiz seemed more a misunderstood mastermind who, under different circumstances, might have been offered a gold-plated SSAAT membership and a locker in the volcano lair. Alas, Fiz was simply a precurser to Karl Rove, who leased his considerable mental gifts to the forces for darkness.

Malone achieved instant fame for his action-packed creation, much to the ire of the attention-hungry Angry Czeck. Rather than invent an original fictional device, I happily thieved SSAAT from my brother and made the military team the subject of my own spelling-word assignments. And while I cannot claim credit for inventing SSAAT, I can claim (with some argument) to have authored the definitive SSAAT saga, poetically entitled War in Cuba.

War in Cuba was an explosive epic handwritten on twenty-four pieces of Big Chief paper. Twenty-four pages not only encouraged slick character development, but also cemented a number of narrative details. It was revealed that SSAAT was not an arm of the military, but contractually employed by the government (sometimes for as high as ten grand per mission). Furthermore, SSAAT was headquartered in a secret lair – an extinct volcano, no less – that owed much to Air Wolf and the Transformers. One of the more regrettable character developments was that Albany obtained his ninja weaponry from the local 7-11.

The last horrifying thing some unlucky Syrian dead-enders will ever see.

Naturally, when I wrote SSAAT stories, the Angry Czeck played a more prominent role than one might expect from a mere second-in-command. War in Cuba was no exception, as my character became a dynamite blend of Templeton Peck, Remington Steele and Rambo. The Angry Czeck got all the good lines and delivered most of the two-fisted action, although I seem to remember Jamie somehow saving the day with his flamethrower.

I wish I could recall the plot of War in Cuba, but I can’t. I can’t even remember why it was set in Cuba. I do remember that the conclusion was very exciting, and that it involved most of the team being completely surrounded by NPT troops (“NPT” stood for Nuinski’s Platoon of Terrorists). That’s when Jamie arrived with the flamethrower.

I bring up SSAAT only to illustrate the following whim: Wouldn’t it be cool if SSAAT really existed? Right now? When America needs a super specialized assault attack team the most?

Instead of a massive deployment of troops facing the Syrian dead-enders in Iraq, simply out-source SSAAT to do the job. Not only would the turnkey execution be press-free in its clandestine approach, but it would only cost the US taxpayer ten thousand bucks. You think Bin Laden would still be making hairy-faced videotapes if SSAAT were unleashed upon a cringing Middle East? You think Iran would continue with its shifty nuclear program if SSAAT had ten grand smoldering in its homemade leather wallet of karate chops and plastic explosives? Do you believe women’s rights in Saudi Arabia would not improve if Jason were lurking on your docks ready to plant a compressed O2 powered spear into your chest cavity?

Don Rumsfield is all for a scaled-down military. SSAAT is only ten guys! Unless you have Lee Marvin on speed dial, you’re not getting more scaled down then ten third-grade boys. Plus, you save on expenses because Albany gets his ninja equipment at the local 7-11, remember?

The best part about hiring SSAAT to stabilize the Middle East is that once the mission is a success, SSAAT modestly returns to its volcano lair without making embarrassing revelations to the press, like there are no WMDs in Iraq. Karl Rove could simply explain to the media that the WMD’s were destroyed in a terrific firefight during an attempt to rescue a female prisoner of war, or that the Iraqi public failed to embrace the U.S. as liberators because they’re just jealous that less than a dozen 9-year-olds fucked up their Dorrito eating dictator’s shit in just twenty-four Big Chief pages of all-spelling-words-used action. Bush could say “Mission Accomplished” and actually mean it. And if a member of SSAAT should happen to “accidentally” leak to the press that every tactical agenda achieved by attacking Iraq could have been achieved by better securing Afghanistan, well, who cares? What does a 9-year-old know?

“Crap! SSAAT makes me so nervous, I shoot myself!”

But really, what greater humiliation to pass down to the Middle East than to have their asses handed to them by third graders with a seven o’clock curfew?
That would really lend some credence to Rumsfield’s assertions that the insurgency is nothing more than a bunch of dead-enders, right? And we all want to embrace Rumsfield, because he doesn’t take shit from the liberal media. And that’s something we like to see from our government officials; the total disdain for society’s caretakers of truth. As far as the Angry Czeck is concerned, Rummy is a one-man CNN. Except for the Iraqi nukes, the missing adulation of the Iraqi people, the assertion that the insurgency is nothing more than Syrian dead-enders, and the promise of a quick exit from the region, “Telling It Straight” Rumsfield’s word has been absolutely golden. Who the fuck needs the press? Rumsfield tells it like it is! I’m canceling my subscription to USA Today right now.

The only element missing to a successful SSAAT operation is Fiz Nuinski. You’d never catch Fiz squirreled inside “a spider hole,” nor would he have allowed anyone to photograph him wearing nothing but his Calvin Klein tidy-whities. In addition to being a boxer shorts man, Fiz had a little more class and a lot more brains. When Saddam was content with Kuwait, Fiz had his death beam aimed at the entire planet. While Saddam considered Reagan and Clinton as pretty good guys, Fiz was spitting colorful evilisms to momentarily captured SSAAT operatives. As Saddam vaguely hinted about a nuclear program that existed only in White House security briefs, Fiz was personally training a platoon of henchmen who wore smart red jumpsuits. It’s a sad world with SSAAT sitting this one out. For just ten grand and directions to the nearest 7-11, we could be out of this Iraqi mess in a few as 24 Big Chief pages.

Remember the unnerving plight of the amazing St. James Davis? You know, the guy who had his nuts and face eaten off by surly chimpanzees? (See the compelling May post “No Viagra® for me, please. A chimpanzee ate my nuts” for reference.) Secretly, I knew you wanted an update, and secretly, I knew you were too lazy to do your own research, so the Angry Czeck did it for you. Apparently, the mighty St. James has been shaken awake from his medically induced coma (quite possible by his now single-thumbed wife, LaDonna). Here’s a snippet from the Ridgecrest Daily Independent:

“Since being transported to Loma Linda, Davis has been in a medically induced coma. Recently doctors decided it was time to revive him. He made an effort to speak but it was nearly impossible because his lips were missing. Doctors gave him an electronic voice box, which he held up against his throat. It was the first time he has spoken since the attack and his first words were “How is Moe doing?” (Angry Reminder: “Moe” is St. Jame’s pet monkey.)

Despite this astounding progress, there is still a lot of work to be done and more experimental surgeries are being discussed.

Doctors are considering manufacturing a prosthetic nose that can be snapped off for cleaning and then snapped back on.”

I’ll bet St. James is really looking forward to keeping his new snap-on nose clean. Let St. James be your living lesson NEVER to befriend a monkey, damnitt. It ain’t worth your lips. Instead, meet some people at the Mall, or buy a hamster.

Most nancy-man travel blogs feature posts about limp-wristed ports of call, like Branson or Destin. Well, eat this, travel snob! You’re getting a country helping of Gatlinburg, Tennessee. But don’t bother visiting Gatlinburg, bitches. Not without proper papers, anyway. The Angry Czeck has already conquered it, annexing the Smoky Mountain town to an already cowering empire of rancor and bile. The Angry Czeck and his son, Angry Jr., toured his newly acquired lands this weekend, pissing off the peasants and establishing a culture of fear behind our Mazda’s emissions.

You don’t need a passport, but you do need a muscle shirt.

The best aspect about a vacation to Gatlinburg is that upon entering the city limits, you are automatically the best looking person there. Hands down. Your competition chiefly consists of families with strange skull formations. Not a lot of snappy dressers in Gatlinburg, either. Most people visiting Gatlinburg view the excursion as the perfect excuse to break out their most poorly conceived t-shirt. So if you’re not inherently good looking, just wear something nice (i.e. something other than a striped muscle shirt). You’ll be King of Gatlinburg.

Speaking of t-shirts, make sure to bring your worst to Gatlinburg. If you don’t have an awful t-shirt, you’ll discover plenty of places to buy one. T-shirts in Gatlinburg generally stick to a menu of simple yet beloved themes:

1. The South
2. Jesus
3. Getting Lucky

It’s not just the ladies in Gatlinburg sporting #3 either. One guy, who appeared to have been dragged to Gatlinburg behind a stagecoach, wore a shirt that declared: “Your daughter’s in good hands!” Similar sentiments are popular with women, too, and are usually featured on shirts so small their breasts are screaming for release. Normally, this can be kind of sexy, just not in Gatlinburg.

But the Jesus shirts are the best. “His Pain Your Gain” is always popular in Gatlinburg. While staggering through the streets with Angry Jr. in tow, I began to imagine what it might be like if Jesus had bypassed Jerusalem and visited Gatlinburg. He’d have been pretty impressed with the fashion, I’d wager. He might have walked away with a custom t-shirt that read “I’m With Twelve Stupids.”

Gatlinburg’s most confounding Jesus shirt featured the bare back of a very muscular Jesus, with several whip marks across his body. The headline screams, “Read Between the Lines.” Really, Jesus People, what the hell does that mean? What lesson am I to learn? Would Jesus wear that shirt? Can you imagine Him reviewing the design and responding, “Hell, yeah. Silk-screen a thousand of these babies!” The most horrible thing is, even while you’re reading this, somebody is wearing that shirt.

THREE THINGS SEEN IN GATLINBURG:

1. A forehead tattoo.

2. A man wearing a shirt (tucked into a pair of jean shorts) that read: It Ain’t Easy Being Easy.

3. A bride arriving to her wedding in a silver Grand Am.

If you think you’re getting of cheap in Gatlinburg, then you are a big fool. On past trips to Gatlinburg, the Angry Czeck’s angry mother-in-law footed much of the bill. (Benefits of being a kept angry man). This time, I was on my own. Here’s an abbreviated tally for 1.5 days in Gatlinburg:

Bumper Boats = $7 per ride
Ski-Lift up Mountain = $12.50 per person
Aquarium ticket (adult and toddler) = $24.00

Don’t think that those outlandish prices don’t add up. Shit, at one point, I began to panic, believing I didn’t have 50¢ for the trolley back to the hotel. I guess I could have purchased an XXXXL t-shirt with my check card, and Angry Jr. and I could have slept inside it.

Speaking of the trolley, I was witness to an amusing exchange between the trolley driver and a man waiting at a trolley stop:

MAN: Hey! How much does it cost to ride the trolley?
DRIVER: Twenty-five cents.
MAN: Forget it!

Traveling alone with a toddler offers its own list of exciting challenges. Thanks to an explosion of well-publicized child kidnappings, a man alone with a two-year-old boy looks a lot like a suspect featured on an Amber Alert. I kept waiting to receive a Gatlinburg sheriff’s beating. To make matters more challenging, Angry Jr. has an unnerving habit of screaming “Help me!” when you’re slow getting his sippy cup.

Thanks to the funds-draining nature of Gatlinburg, the Angry Czeck found himself at the end of the day dining on a value meal at McDonald’s. Big fatty helpings, yessir. People visit the Gatlinburg McDonald’s just to smooth the wrinkles in their new t-shirts. One woman came in dragging her three children and her vacant-eyed husband. He and two of the kids raced to the counter for a helping of grease. The mother stayed behind with her infant, who began an ear-bleeding campaign of screaming. Hey, the Angry Czeck is a dad. He’s been there when Junior decides to melt down in a public place. I understand. But the trick is to at least appear like your going to do something about it. For more than 15 minutes, the woman just stared at her yelling infant, offering no comfort outside a woeful expression on her face. Come on. Try getting the kid out of the stroller and walking her around. Preferably outside. No dice.

THREE THINGS OVERHEARD IN GATLINBURG:

1. “Hey, there’s a Grand Am. Did you see it?”

2. “Looks like we missed your wedding…it wasn’t our fault.”

3. “Get over here right now so I can hit you with my shoe!”

My hotel looked exactly like a 15-story toilet paper roll, stuck neatly into the folds of the Smoky Mountains. You’d think the Angry Czeck would rate a nice view, but no. I got a view of the service parking lot. But Angry Jr. and I weren’t in Gatlinburg for the view! We were here to make Gatlinburg my bitch!

Have you ever been to the mall at about 7:00 at night, only to realize you’re the only 30-year-old in the joint? If you’re a guy, there’s no helping the appearance that you’re only there to score with teens, like a big pervert. That’s what happens to the streets of Gatlinburg around 7. The adults vanish, and the girls put on smaller shirts. I didn’t want to look like…you know…that guy, so I was busting my ass to make a trolley. If you think pushing a toddler around in a stroller helps, forget it. My son only looked like a desperate prop for attention. Apparently to the teen in a small shirt, the only thing less cool than an old man lugging around a toddler is forgetting to scrub the mud off your 1999 Grand Am.

One hint of class you’ll find in Gatlinburg is the Aquarium. Not only is it well done, but you get the opportunity to touch a stingray. That might not be on par with riding a dolphin, but it made Angry Junior’s day. The most sinister tank featured giant spider crabs. People eat these things. Later, Angry Jr. showcased a brief tantrum that resulted in my picking him up by one arm. That always looks bad, no matter what the circumstance. Some parents were looking at me like I just tossed the kid into the shark pool. I wanted to say, “Fuck you! Like you never lifted your kid off the ground by one arm! You try lugging a backpack full of graham crackers and diapers while directing your child away from the spider crab tank. And you’re wearing ill-fitting t-shirts!” I didn’t though.

Many of you may have an image of the Angry Czeck as an ever vigilant force chained by obligation to his keyboard, pounding out discords of anger on his Macintosh as the shadows of time cross his grizzled (yet handsomely chisled) visage. Fools. Unlike most of you, who only move at the atomic level, the Angry Czeck is in constant motion, freely investigating new vistas of fury for a cringing audience.

The Angry Czeck was recently seen in the Incubator of Patriotism and Rancor, Washington D.C., where a backstage tour of the Capital Building awaited. See, ordinary Americans must be content with hanging out at the Capital Rotunda like prisoners, wistfully awaiting the moment when the line at the souvenir store melts. The Angry Czeck is no ordinary American, as he cashed in his prestige, fame, and connections for a bitch’in VIP tour.

Orchestrated by my resourceful sister-in-law, our Capital host was a former congressman named Ron who acted as President of the Capital Historical Society. Not bad. When he wasn’t loading me up with obscure facts about the Capital Building, he was putting security guards in their place by whipping out his Former Congressman ID Badge. I was like, “Yeah, punk! I could be lugging around a bazooka, bitch, but you couldn’t do anything about it because I’m with a FORMER CONGRESSMAN! Eat it!”

Speaking of security, you couldn’t wander into a restricted area without knocking over a pile of armed guards like dominos. Thanks, terrorists, for turning the Crucible of Freedom into a fucking stockade. I never even got a chance to chip off a piece of marble from Dan Quayle’s vice presidential bust.

Best thing about Ron was that even though he was a Republican, he still seemed a little embarrassed about Dan Quayle’s bust. He was like, “Er…there’s Dan Quayle’s bust. See…every vice president gets a bust. It’s like, a rule.” Ron was also cool when my two-year-old son was tearing ass through the House of Representatives Chamber. I thought the security guy was going to have a stroke when my son began bouncing on one of the Rep’s chairs, but he knew Ron would have ID Badged him to a sedate position of shame.

Despite my role as VIP, I was not allowed to pass even a token bill of legislation. Nor was I permitted to use LBJ’s vice presidential commode. I’ll bet a lot of Viet Cong bombing raids were planned on that crapper, in addition to several Texas-sized insults muttered about John F. Kennedy.

Where the Capital Building lacks in full VIP access, it makes up for in big statues. I’m guessing the Capital Building holds the Guinness record for statue tonnage. If I learned one thing on the tour, it is that every American has roughly an 11% chance of having a statue of himself featured at the Capital Building. I swear they had one of the guy who played Bogs Diamond in The Shawshank Redemption.

One of the most interesting comments Ron made was referring to Dick Cheney as “history’s most powerful vice president.” His tone of voice did little to reveal whether or not he thought that to be a good thing, but the Angry Czeck can’t help but to believe that a strong vice president only underscores the weakness of the president. Bush apologists will maintain that Cheney is yet another valuable resource wisely selected by the President to fill out a political think-tank, but what it really says is that Bush has not the confidence to pursue difficult decisions on his own. You can’t convince me that the American public voted Bush into office so Cheney could run things. Pretty much, I think Cheney pulled aside a drunken Bush in 1997 and whispered, “You’ve got the looks, I’ve got the brains, let’s make lots of money. And promote the doctrines of evil as an added bonus.”

“Bend to the most powerful vice president ever, America!”

Ron didn’t lead us to any Civil War era secret passages, or enthrall us with tales of Kennedy quickies in the old Supreme Court quarters, but we did get to ride the nifty train that runs beneath the Capital, and that was cool. My thanks to Ron, who I highly doubt is a regular reader of the Angry Czeck. (Which, in retrospect, may be a good thing, as I learned that being a former congressman entitles you to one free person to toss into Gitmo.) So if somebody sees Ron, the Czeck screams, “Hi!”

After a healthy fried lunch, we opted to peruse the grounds commemorating our nation’s sacrifices, Arlington Cemetery. First impression: Man, that’s a lot of tombstones. My favorite belonged to a guy named Dalton Raze. In addition to having a cooler name this side of Victor Von Doom, his slab bore this two-fisted description: Raze • World War II • Korea • Army Ranger. I’ll bet there are plenty of North Koreans and Germans whose last view on Earth was the sneering mug of Raze.

My son described John F. Kennedy’s eternal flame best: “Hot!” You bet, son. It took my sister in law about an hour to get a picture of me at the JFK memorial. By the time she snapped the picture, I was sporting Washington’s sweatiest face. Later, the redfaced Ted Kennedy sent me a note warning me to “back off.”

The day’s best moment transpired while I was watching the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. As the ceremony grinded to its somber conclusion, my son put on an enormous burst of speed and dashed through the crowd! At any moment, a humorless Marine was going to impale my son on a bayonet. Luckily, my son was gripped by reason and stopped short of interrupting what many consider to be a sacred ceremony. I turned to my wife and deadpanned, “Ma’am, will you please control your child?”

The next day, we decided to beat the crowds and arrived at the Smithsonian at noon. The foyer of the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History was like an English soccer riot. Had I any mace, I’d have sprayed it. Somehow, we managed to get to the security area for complimentary weapons screening. The security guards look like the dudes from Abu Graib. I was half prepared to be stacked into a naked pyramid with my family. Instead, as I nervously attempted to unfold a stroller and empty the contents of a stuffed diaper bag, the guard yawned, “Just..just go through. Just go.”

It was like not being carded by a bouncer who cards everyone. The highly-trained Smithsonian security immediately assessed me as a non-threat. There you have it. The Angry Czeck may exude fury, he may emit rage, but he sparks not an iota of danger. Later, I went into the bathroom, stood in front of a mirror, and practiced looking mean.

How nobody walks off with a dinosaur bone from the Smithsonian is beyond me. A million freeloaders like me wander in and out every day. You don’t so much view the artifacts at the Smithsonian. Mostly you gasp, “I can’t breathe!” Or you ask people to get off your damn foot. I thought somebody would lose a limb at the Hope Diamond display.

The Angry Czeck is only being negative about the Smithsonian because it makes for better reading. But I will say that the biggest disappointment was the restroom. I thought I had mistakenly wandered into the Exhibit of House Flies.

Finally, after making yet another well-crafted speech about the Cradle of Democracy, I herded my inspired entourage to The Mall, where one might find all of Washington’s flagship monuments (but no Gap). The first was the Washington Monument, which in my pre-D.C. days I considered to be a pretty lame monument to the Father of our Country. Really, what is it? A big stone stick pointing to the sky. Unless you’ve been to D.C. (like me) you don’t realize how dominant the Washington Monument is. It can be seen from nearly every other monument in the city. My muscled chest swelled with pride as my wife took my picture before the world’s most famous phallic symbol.

Next, we staggered over to the World War II Memorial, which doubles as a taxpayer funded feet soaker. While I was there, a hundred people were soaking their feet in the reflecting pool. Nice. Despite the lack of reverence, the WW2 memorial is both impressive and comprehensive. Even the Virgin Islands gets a shout out.

On the way to the Lincoln Memorial, I took a side trip (literally) to the Vietnam Memorial. You always hear on TV how emotional the Vietnam Memorial is, and your general reaction is to roll your eyes and flip the channel to Fear Factor. But when you stand before that ribbon of black, and when you’re confronted by the thousands of names of people who died because the nimrods stationed but two miles across the Mall hadn’t the vision or courage to remove their Cold War goober goggles, it makes you sad. Compounding the sadness is the knowledge that we have already collected 1500 names for a new, perhaps just as sobering memorial to be constructed in due time. I wonder if George W. Bush stands in front of the Vietnam Memorial, sees the thousands of names etched in black and thinks, “Shit, I can beat that. Watch.”

George is already building us a new one.

In addition to commanding the most awesome view in Washington, the Lincoln Memorial has got to be the stuffiest edifice in the nation. I nearly burst into flame reading the Gettysburg address. Sullying the experience was the sloppy security measures installed around the monument. Chain link fences and concrete barriers are a real contrast to Abe’s message of freedom. You get the feeling that these security measures are temporary until a more aesthetic solution is developed, but jeez. Come on. Can’t you clean up for the Angry Czeck?

(Transmission intercepted by a Russian spy satellite)

DICK: Good morning, George. Enough chit-chat. Let’s get down to brass tacks!

GEORGE: Dick? What are you doing in here? I’m trying to make love to my wife!

DICK: Shut up. Put a pillow over her head. I don’t want her hearing this.

GEORGE: Okay.

DICK: What are you going to say at the G8 Conference next month?

GEORGE: Well, I don’t know. I guess I plan to pledge support to whatever mandates our scientific community recommends in an effort to stymie the worldwide effect of global warming.

DICK: Wrong. You’re going to tell those pinheads that there’s no such thing as global warming.

GEORGE: But evidence points to the contrary.

DICK: Evidence? The United States says global warming is an ecoterrorist fiction invented to undermine big business. That’s enough evidence for me.

GEORGE: Oh. Okay.

DICK: Okay is right, you idiot. Furthermore, our new policy is to totally disavow any accepted state or condition adopted by these so-called “scientists.”

GEORGE: Oh, God! Like what?

DICK: The earth is not round, it’s flat like a nickel. Babies are made by magic dust sprinkled by God. Houseflies are created from dead hamburger meat. Solar energy is useful only for pocket calculators. If you can’t see something, then it must not exist. The sun is the size of a basketball. You can bend a spoon just by praying at it. The moon is made out of green cheese. The world is only five or six hundred years old. Dinosaur bones are actually oddly shaped rocks. You can remove a wart by having sex with a monkey. You can eat a cloud like cotton candy. There is no such thing as atoms. Commit this list to memory in time for the G8 Conference.

GEORGE: That seems like an awful long –

(The sound of fifteen minutes of bitch slapping)

DICK: We’ll teach those “learned” pansies not to fuck with the USA! Clean yourself up, you moron.

GEORGE: I think I’ll eat some clouds for breakfast.

DICK: That’s the spirit. Now get off your wife. It’s my turn.

finis