If you're not angry, then you're not caring hard enough.
I have an incredible threshold for acceptance. I accept that the primary reason for making Iraq the New Puerto Rico was nukes (if I sniff enough gas). I accept the fact that George Lucas fucked up an unfuckable franchise. I accept the French.
But I can’t accept that I must share the road with bicyclers.
Why? My car weighs 3000 pounds. Why must I disignate the same care and consideration to an idiot pedaling a 40 pound toy on a busy boulevard? Who made this law? When did Greg LeMond become a congressman? If it saves me time, can I drive on a bicycle path?
I don’t know many bicycle people, but the ones I do know are nuts. Not a cool nuts either. I’m talking about a leg-shaving, farmer-tan-sporting, no-body-fat-having nuts that doesn’t go over too good at parties.
How these people wield so much power with the Traffic Authority, I’ll never know. Yet I must drive 10 miles per hour on a street maxed at 45 MPH because the bicycler ahead of me can’t handle the bumpy sidewalk. It doesn’t matter if I channel Steve McQueen and manage to maneuver around. While I’m idling at the stoplight, bicycle rider pedals through the red because, hey, I may have to share the road with bicycles, but bicycles don’t have to share the road with The Angry Czeck.
The road signs are the most annoying. SHARE THE ROAD it screams. Like I’m already a felon. Ooops! I need to be reminded not to squish the 14 existing bicycle assholes beneath my tires. I’m so dumb.
Fuck it. For now on, I’m driving my Big Wheels to work. And you have to eat it, too, sucker, because the law is on my side. You’ll never get to work on time because I’m taking up a whole fucking lane. It’s within my rights. You can honk and honk, but it won’t matter, because you have to SHARE THE ROAD. And you’ll know it’s me because I’ll be wearing tight spandex pants but no shirt. I hate farmer tans. Hell, maybe I’ll make a bicycle fruit pedal behind my Big Wheel, just so he can get a taste of the bullshit he and his healthy hippie commune been shoveling at me. Remember, I don’t need a turn signal because I’m on a Big Wheel. In fact, no road rules apply to me, because I’m riding a child’s toy. I’m completely immune. For bikers, stop signs are DON’T HAVE TO STOP signs. How do you like it? You like it, don’t you?
Are you a man? More specifically, are you a man with a charcoal or gas grill? Do you have a preference between charcoal and gas? Do you wear monogrammed oven mitts? Have you ever received a chrome spatula and fork for your birthday? Do you believe yourself to be the creator of a “secret sauce?” Have you argued passionately in the defense of a rub or baste?
If so, you are probably somebody who barbecues, although if somebody suggested that with those words, you’d be offended. The proper term is “griller.” Listen, it doesn’t matter what you call it. You’re just cooking, Sally. Put on a skirt for full effect.
I’m not above slapping some meat onto my Weber. I just have some perspective. I realize that I am merely doing what I could have done in the kitchen. Except now I have an excuse to drink beer. And my wife thinks I’m cooking dinner.
Except I’m not. See, Meghan is still at work, making beans or toasting bread or setting the table. Not me. I’m standing importantly around my grill, drinking beer and wondering when I should flip something. Meghan probably does more work when I decide to barbecue (my preferred term) then when I offer to make egg sandwiches for dinner.
“Grillers” argue that the act of grilling is far more challenging than applying heat to meat. They talk about baste and sauce as though theirs was developed in a secret bunker at Oak Ridge. Here’s a hint, Emeril: a guy named Kraft makes a decent sauce.
Okay, here’s a wild, uninformed guess from me, but I’m betting 90% of “grillers” claim the secret to their secret sauce is beer. People who make this revelation public always have the same dopey look on their faces – the smug look people display when claiming to be afraid of clowns. (Here’s anther secret: Nobody is afraid of clowns. Nobody. Quit pretending you are.)
Beer is not a secret ingredient. If it’s Coors beer, it’s not a secret ingredient.
Don’t say I’m jealous because I have yet to perfect my “grilling technique.” Fuck you. I’m more likely to find something good on the Lifetime Channel than spend time experimenting with rub.
I don’t begrudge you for your little cooking hobby. I just don’t want you rolling your eyes at me when I’m trying to flip a hamburger. And yes, I’m going to pour a whole fucking can on lighter fluid on my inexpertly stacked coals. I might even remove my chicken before sticking a thermometer into it. Why? Because I’m not a Grilling Snob, that’s why. I’m only here to eat.
The Memphis Barbecue Fest (What? Not the “Grilling Fest?”) is coming up. It’s a contest much like logrolling or a quilting bee. The only difference is that many of the contestants are completely hammered from consuming too much secret ingredient. I don’t find anything wrong with this, except that some people train all year for this. In fact, the convicts from the Dirty Dozen experience less training than some of the most dedicated “grillers” in the contest.
I’ll bet George W. Bush fancies himself a “griller.”
The modern man doesn’t have a whole lot to cling to anymore. Few social milieus can be claimed as his sole domain. Funny how that man, in his desperation to secure his masculine identity, has embraced the traditionally feminine activity of cooking as his own. I think that’s cute.
Remember when the United States attacked Iraq a couple years ago?
It was wild, man. W pulled out all the stops. First, W used the State of the Union Address to proclaim Iraq the worst in a trio of evil, a brilliant masterstroke that totally cornered the concept of evil as “anti-American.” Next, he forced a miserable Colin Powell to pawn satellite photos of a trailer park as “evidence of a nuclear program.” Poor Colin. He had his best “I-Involuntarily-Ejaculated-During-My-Prostate-Exam” Face going. Finally, when the ignorant UN inexplicably decided to consider hard evidence rather than W’s Christian Intuition, W said “fuck you” and deployed his troops anyway. The French screamed.
Of course, savvy Democrats knew that Fuck Iraq II was less about nukes and more about oil. Insane Democrats broke out the Blood For Oil signs left over from Fuck Iraq I, and soon the Vegas odds on Don Rumsfield cold-cocking a Daily News reporter were about even money.
Eventually, it was learned that the evidence of WMDs was really just a secret list of adult toys Newt Gingrich left in his trousers pocket, and the cries of Blood for Oil grew shriller.
And I was pissed off, man. W lied to us. He LIED. He blamed his CIA Director George “Bent-Over” Tenet for providing “bad information.” But that’s it. W shrugged his shoulders without even saying, “whoops!” Even when a UN report revealed that Iraq hadn’t sported a nuclear program since Fuck Iraq I, W didn’t even flinch. He did, however, use the Patriot Act to secret away American Arabs to Cuba. At least we had that going.
But one fact prevented me from sending a box of sperm to Dick Cheney, and that was the sweet, sweet anticipation of cheap gas. I reasoned that if 1000-plus American soldiers had to die occupying Iraq, then at least we ought to be pumping Arabian crude at 30 cents a gallon, right? Right?
See, here’s the thing: Democrats are emotional teenage girls. You ask a Democrat why he despises W, and 9 times out of 10, this is the thoughtful response: “Because he’s a dumb-ass!”
Sure, technically this argument holds water because I happen to own a couple brass bookends with a higher IQ than our President. Yet the Democrats aren’t going to win elections when the core political base is driving around 1992 Nissan Sentras with an “F the President” sticker on the rear window. Or writing blogs.
It was never about oil. The Saudis have the oil. I love the Saudis. They own the most fucked up nation in the Middle East, yet they have an open invitation to visit the White House. Nine out of ten 9-11 terrorists were Saudis. When an investigation into 9-11 was conducted, nearly 20 documents were censored from public view. It is believed that those documents implicate Saudi Arabia. The sheiks pretend to be concerned, yet do nothing.
Why don’t we apply more pressure on Saudi Arabia to improve human rights (like we do with China)? How come we fucked Iraq’s shit instead of making Saudi Arabia the 52nd state (Canada, of course, is 51)? Why are smiling Saudi princes still making more appearances at the White House than W’s reading-and-spelling coach?
Because Saudi Arabians understand better than anybody that while Americans continue to buy hulked up SUVs, they know that power lies with the gas. Think W doesn’t know this? He’s an oilman. Do you think he wants more solar powered cars? Do you believe he’s applauding the increasing popularity of hybrid cars (which currently represent 1 miserable percent of the total number of new cars purchased in 2004)? Nope. That might not sit well with our ally the Saudi Arabians, chief exporter of oil, headless bodies and terrorists.
I can’t wait for the day when some lucky fucker discovers a way to make cars run on Bermuda grass or Swiss cheese. Can you imagine how the Saudi oil barons would look when the news hit CNN? They’d have the Colin Powell face. Every last motherfucking one of them.
Except it would never be allowed to happen. The genius who builds the Swiss Cheese Combusting Engine would die in a mysterious car wreck. The patent for the design would be purchased by a conglomerate and become buried in a Raiders of the Lost Ark-like warehouse.
You think a billion dollar business evaporates because some happy asshole invents a cleaner, cheaper and more sensible solution? Is this the reason why the evolution of transportation has stymied to a crawl since Henry Ford put the Model T into mass production? After all, the only difference between a Henry Ford engine and a modern Ford engine is that it requires more gas.
To sum up, Fuck Iraq II has yielded nothing for us. Nothing. We still have terrorists. We still have a seething Middle East. And in return, we have dead American soldiers, the unpatriotic Patriot Act and gas prices that make my wallet scream. How will Democrats respond to this in 2008?
Like dumb asses.
Ha, ha, suckers! I’m on steroids, which makes me better than you. Before steroids, people who weren’t pushing me around were thinking about pushing me around. Not anymore. You should see my arms. Huge! You should see my pecs. Huge! My neck, too. I’m typing this post shirtless because I’m so hot.
So far, the only side effect is that my face looks like Robert Mitchum’s in Rio Bravo. And I’m not sure if I have nuts anymore. But you don’t need nuts when you can bench 380. Yesterday, I lifted a Ford Focus over my head.
I used to be a “little guy.” Can’t call me that now, because I am huge. I will stuff a piano down your throat. I can break your jaw! I’m on steroids, bitch. Feel my muscles!
I’m glad that dickless pansies like doctors and school teachers say steroids are bad. Good! More cattle testosterone for me, sucker. I’ll take your girlfriend and make her mine. She will like it. You don’t like it? I think that’s cute. Come here and do something about it.
Steroids are the best goddamn thing that ever happened to me. People respect me now. Especially when I’m punching holes in their windshields, or when I’m sweating on their lunch. My resting heart rate is 220.
Mark McGwire is a pussy. He should have told the congressional committee, “Fuck yeah, I took steroids. I’m on steroids right now, bitch. I hit 500 fucking home runs. And I banged your wife. I will tear your head off and drink all your blood!”
Ralphael Palmerio is a pussy. Any man who admits to taking Viagra® but not steroids doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air trapped inside Ken Caminitti’s dead armpit. Get your finger out of my grill, Ralphy. Canseco’s syringe wasn’t the only thing he was sticking in your butt.
Sammy Sosa is a pussy. He pretends he can’t speak English, but I bet he knows how to say, “Now the other cheek, Mr. Canseco.” I think his dick is full of cork.
Hell yeah, I’m on steroids. I love them. I eat them like Flintstones. That’s why I’m breaking bricks between my ass cheeks while you feel your man-breasts bouncing when climbing a flight of stairs. You think I can’t kick everybody’s ass on that congressional committee? They tremble before my power. Pussy committee is more like it.
If it weren’t for steroids, this post would be over by now. Steroids grant me the stamina to write longer. Harder. With more penetration. How do you like it, ma’am? You like that, don’t you?
You know that shit that makes cows grow bigger steaks? That shit works, man. My neck went from a size 16 to a size 22 with three injections. If you don’t believe me, witness the awesome veins bulging from my Adam’s apple when I chew bubblegum. I’m a monster!
Don’t think you want to do steroids, kids? You will if you want to make varsity. You will if you want girls to talk to you. You will if you want to make that smart ass little shit in Geometry II toss your salad. You think that squirrely English teacher will dare flunk you when you’re head-butting holes in his chalkboard? I don’t think so.
I got go get my chest waxed. You better be here when I get back, or God help me, I’ll twist your fucking arms off. XOXO.
Couple weeks ago at the office, some guy came in off the street and stole my wallet. The security door was deactivated so that couriers could come in without disruption. The thief only had to polish his brass balls and stroll inside.
One of my co-workers saw him milling around and asked him what he was doing. The thug said, “The woman up front said I could use the bathroom.” Good enough. The punk was directed to the can, which shares an approximate location with my office. My wallet was sitting on my desk, so the asshole swiped it and later charged $300 to my debit card.
You live in Memphis, you expect to absorb some crime. It was irritating to replace my driver’s license, cancel my credit cards, and file a police report. But it wasn’t exactly upsetting. Shit happens.
The attitude of society towards crime victims is what’s upsetting. When I finally figured out my wallet was not lost, but stolen, I immediately informed the building’s security force. Three (3) security guards interviewed me on three separate occasions. This is a Reader’s Digest version of the transcript:
GUARD: (writing in little black book) You say the thief stole your wallet.
GUARD: And where was your wallet, sir?
ME: On my desk.
GUARD: (pursing her lips) Oh. On your desk. (snaps little black book shut)
Case closed. See, it wasn’t the thief’s fault for stealing my wallet. It’s my fault. I was the fool who left my personal property on my desk — a desk that happens to be located in a building that can afford to employ three security guards.
What kind of ass thinking is this? And it wasn’t just the security guards either. Nearly everyone in my office gave me the “Knowing Nod.” You know the one. That nod you save special for fools and Memphis City elected officials. That’s what I got when I told people how my wallet was stolen.
KNOWING NODDER: “Why didn’t you have your wallet in your pocket?”
ME: “What does it matter? Some asshole came in and stole my wallet!”
KNOWING NODDER: “You shouldn’t have had your wallet out.”
In my opinion, I should be allowed to leave a pile of diamonds on my desk and expect it not to be stolen by some guy passing along on the street. Why? Because it’s fucking stealing, that’s why.
The Knowing Nodders patiently explain that what happened to my wallet is “A Crime of Opportunity,” which is another way of saying it’s my fault that somebody stole my wallet. See, I deserved to have my wallet stolen, because I made it into an irresistible opportunity. Now it’s not a crime. It’s a lesson. For me.
The Crime of Opportunity Argument is the most idiotic, liberalized, anal-sore mouth shit I’ve ever experienced. This is the same thinking that justifies the rape of a woman who wears a short skirt. This is the identical line of reasoning people take when besmirching a murdered man’s character for jogging in the park at night. “Well, if he hadn’t been jogging in the park at night, he wouldn’t have been gang-beaten to death with baseball bats. Serves him right.”
Remember, this isn’t his fault. It’s yours.
The wallet thief, more than likely, won’t get caught. He didn’t stick around to accept accountability. The only person left is the victim. Me. So I get to listen to condescending lectures about keeping an uncomfortable wallet in my pants, because leaving my wallet on my desk just invites innocent people to commit a felony. Meanwhile, I have to wait ten days for my “customer first” bank to decide I’m not a liar. Only then will they reimburse the $300 I allowed to have taken from me.
The point of this exercise is to reveal the identity of who is at fault when crime occurs: Criminals. Yes, criminals are the ones to blame. When somebody shoots me in the face, arrest the guy who did the face-shooting. Don’t wonder why I was sitting in a porn theatre at 2 in the morning. It’s not relevant to the case. Nor when I get gang-raped by thugs, don’t wonder what I did to provoke them. It doesn’t matter. I was gang raped by thugs! That’s the crime.
Don’t worry about this guy. He had it coming.
Because my blog is so popular with the underworld, I’m sure that the wallet thief is reading this post and laughing his ass off. Can’t say I blame you, punk. Because, ironically, society sees you as the victim and not me. You may be the punk, but I’m the privileged product of middle class society with the nerve to own a wallet. You were right to take the wallet, punk, because it was a Crime of Opportunity and I deserve to be deprived of possessions I work my ass off for. You lived off an unearned $300, punk, not because you are a cowardly piece of shit too stupid to learn how to fill a W-2 Form, but because I made crime too easy an option for you. I deserve the prison-rapings you could be receiving right now at 201 Poplar. I’m sorry I canceled the goddamn check card. If you had stolen more money from me, punk, I might have received a deeper lesson in return.