The Scarlet Neck

My interest in the degradation of American society is extremely vast. I enjoy wondering why our country has turned into a giant bedpan with 300 million little turds floating in it. From cell phones to fat asses, we are a lazy, laxadazical, wastrel of a country. Another perfect example of the patheticness of our society is our second most watched “Sport”. Don’t jump to conclusions; I am not referring to the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest (Which interestingly is always won by a Japanese guy. You would think we would have the market cornered in piehole stuffing.). I am referring to the neck burning “Sport” of NASCAR.

There is nary a sport as strenuous as racing. Anyone who has spent even 20 laps on a road course will agree. So I am not raging against the drivers here but instead the fans. Those lovable, trucker hat wearing, jolly, Santa like rednecks with their oh so stylish rainbow colored t-shirts proclaiming their love for a driver who would rather put a tire mark on their forehead than talk to NASCAR-fan. The fact that close to 100,000 of these sheeple gather at each race amazes me. Can you imagine how many cans of Schlitz must be consumed at these events? I’ll bet the local possum community declares a red alert for the weekend. Nothing beats a good deep fried possum, except maybe a deep fried Schlitz.

Turn Left, turn left, turn left, turn left, repeat 3-400 times and you have a winner. Chiropractors should set up booths at NASCAR races; they could make a killing fixing “Left Neck”. Of course 90% of the spectators don’t have insurance, but they can pay the $100 a pop duckets to get in. And if they are really lucky they can go home with a drivers tire. Yes, that is considered a souveneer. Not a hat or the aforementioned t-shirt but a fucking tire.

Hardcore NASCAR fan complains that people only watch for the crashes and doesn’t appreciate the skill it takes to race. I think those people are hoping that a car ends up in the stands to take out NASCAR fan in a fiery crash. Then there taxes would go down because there would be 20 less welfare cases in the state. At least NASCAR fan saves a little money by actually driving their home to the race and living in the infield for a week. Yee Haw.

Ode to Pops

Everybody loves their dad. He is that guy who will do just about anything for his kids. Anything that is, besides changing his wardrobe.
At what point does dad go from being a hip twenty something guy to a fashion deficient source of jokes.
At what point does wearing a NASCAR shirt, replete with 26 different colors, become the epitomy of fashion?
At what point do you regress from shoes with laces to shoes with Velcro?
At what point does the thought of keeping the leisure suit forever come into his mind? At what point does the leather jacket with patches come back in style?
At what point does he feel that his pants pockets simply are not big enough and he needs to resort to a black leather fanny pack?
At what point do Wrangler jeans, that are two sizes too small, become the hip new accessory to said fanny pack?
At what point does the cell phone become a fashion accessory for your belt?
At what point does the trucker hat go from being a cool head piece for kids to the bat signal for dorky dad?
At what point do you no longer update your eyeglass style from hipster to wire and bottle cap?
At what point do Tevas and socks become cool?
One question I do know the answer to: At what point does wearing tight khaki gym teacher shorts become cool? The day you became a teenager and he was too afraid to get neutered. So instead he decided to slowly strangle his nads.

Brown Tide

By now every cubicle camper knows that when you get a bunch of women working together, you get the dreaded red tide. For whatever reason, pheromones, hormones, or just to be angry together, they all start to go with the "Flow" at the same time of the month. This can be quite horrific for men (Unless they're hermies) and wonderful for women. Up until today I never thought that this miraculous phenomonon could occur in any other species until I walked into the bathroom at 8:00 am. You see, I always use the bathroom at 8:00 am and if I am lucky, I get my second "Wind" after lunch. The last few days though, my schedule has been stopped short by a full facility. It seems every other guys dog is scratching at the backdoor at the same time. Even worse, I am noticing guys making the walk of shame through the hallway and I find myself hurrying to get the coveted handi stall before the "Game" is sold out. Maybe there are pheromones in a mans brown eye, who knows?

Death of a Good Citizen

As you already know, I am not one to be speechless but I think it may have finally happened. You see yours truly had to go to traffic court. Due to my own laziness and a lack of accurate info from the obviously confused Panchorelli wannabe, I ended up having to spend an hour or so in Hells sixth level. Stick with me here because this folk tale is longer than my usual diatribes. Let’s start with some background, shall we?

Imagine rush hour traffic moving along at a hasty 25 mph. You are in the middle lane in your, new to you, car with tinted side windows (A big no-no in California where you can legally smoke weed for your glaucoma while being married to your dog). You notice a motorcycle highway patrol on the side of the freeway writing up another deposit for the State’s general fund and decide to roll down your windows knowing that your felonious tint could get you a ticket. You pass by and all is well until the fireworks go off behind you and you start imagining the curb seat scenario that is to come. Long story short, I get nailed with a fix it ticket that I can allegedly get signed off on by any officer of the law.

Weeks later I attempt to get it signed off on by 3 separate law entities before getting someone to put their chicken scratch on the bottom of the ticket. I mail it in on time and forget all about the inconvenience. I come back from a vacation at the Happiest Place on Earth (No not the Bunny Ranch you sickos) to find a warrant for my arrest in the mail. Which seems a like a strange way to inform someone they have broken the law. I was half expecting the SWAT team to batter down my door any minute with the tone and wording of the letter. Being a law abiding fellow, I go to the Sheriffs department the next day to turn myself in. In actuality, I just signed a paper saying I would go to court in 2 months. 2 MONTHS!!

Being I am an upstanding citizen, I am a little nervous going to traffic court. So when the day finally comes I leave work early to go to what is the equivalent of the DMV mixed with the Principals office with a dash of used car dealer thrown in. First off I have to pay to park. This is in the fucking suburbs for God’s sake, why am I paying to park, to waist my time, to be around God’s forsaken, and I am sure to pay a fine. As I am walking through a sea of dilapidated human movers, I notice that everyone I see has decided to dress up in their Sunday lawn mowing best. Since I am early and quickly find my department, I decide to head in early and get a preview of the proceedings. Think of it as a Flea Market full of excuses.

A few initial observations. Most people are here for some sort of ridiculous fix it ticket like myself. Some examples being the aforementioned tinted side windows, no front license plate, broken lights and windows, and loud stereos or exhaust; Basically a ricer’s dream. However, 90% of these morons got these tickets while driving on a suspended license or without insurance (Real bright). Second, people are freaking poor. Almost everyone would rather do 6 days community service than pay a $600 fine. Personally my time is worth 2-3 times that much so I would just whip out the Amex Centurion card and get the fuck out of there. There were also quite a few people who had no problem just doing straight time. To you felony virgins, that means going to jail. Yes, jail. How’s that for a shitty day? You go to traffic court and leave in cuffs and a jump suit.

Everyone has heard the term that excuses are like assholes. Let me tell you that there are a lot of assholes with excuses too. That’s what I love about the judicial system; these people skate through life because everyone else has too much to do to actually make them face the music they deserve (I prefer Celine Dione as a great punishment). Here, the judge doesn’t care that you had to drive because your kid and your babies momma were sick and you had to go get some heroin, errrr, I mean medicine. Plus they dole out fines like a fat chick at Starbucks. “I’ll take a Venti driving on a suspended, with extra no insurance, light on the speeding, with two pumps of DUI. Thanks.”

The degradation of society is also on display. However, here you have to answer to the judge or the bailiff. Two men, dressed in wife beaters that they must have bought for the occasion since they still had the fold creases in them, were chewing gum. They had the gall to get riled up when the bailiff asked them to spit it out or the judge would get upset when she gets back. Another douche nozzle’s phone rang during the proceedings, clearly illiterate since there were at least sixteen “No Cell Phones” signs and twelve “No Talking signs”. Luckily the bailiff simply walked them out of the room and gave them a Failure To Appear on their record.

After an hour and a half of waiting, it was my turn. I simply walked up to the podium and explained that I had sent in my proof of correction but the postmark was a day late. Interestingly, all of it was mailed back to me plus copies of the envelope. I am sure it took 20 minutes to put the package together and mail it to me. Thus costing more in labor than the fine I paid. The judge simply said to go to the Fines Room and pay the original fine. Sweet, done and done.

Maybe not. Have you ever made a wrong turn leaving a ball game and end up in a part of town where the locks on your door all of a sudden seem as safe as a Ming vase in the hands of an epileptic? That’s how this room was. One long winding line that could have easily been a waiting area for a Police lineup and I was the token white guy. I just closed my eyes like a new prisoner getting his first shower rape and waited for it to end.

Thank You Mr Science Teacher

When I was in elementary school, every year we had the same stupid science project where we stuck some kids baby tooth into a glass of cola and watched how, in 3 weeks, the tooth started to decay. My question is; who the fuck is leaving soda in their mouth for 3 weeks?

Odiferous Safes

America’s energy woes are long and increasingly becoming worse. One major cause is the heating and cooling of buildings, both residential and commercial. Which makes me wonder why buildings are not constructed in the same manner as elevators. Have you ever noticed that elevators wreak? How is it that a smell can stay in an elevator for so long? There are a few common odiferous stenches, ranging from the very common cigarette smoke to the stinky onion sandwich and of course the fat man spewing pools of rancid underarm sweat smell. My point is, if these smells can live in an elevator that opens and closes constantly, why can’t we create our living spaces out of the same type of insulation?

Why Not Argyle?

I have a shirt in my closet that I wear all the time. It is comfy, simple and goes with everything. It’s almost as if it is an extension of my skin. So much so, that I think I may get a tattoo of the shirt on my sleeve. If that sounds absurd, think about how absolutely trashy the concept of a tattoo sleeve is. Why would anyone permanently adhere the ugliest artwork onto their arms for all to see? It is the same reason people buy ridiculously overpriced designer clothes. So someone will ask them about it and they can feel cool explaining where they got it and how much it cost. Plus it is so anti-establishment.

How do you get that high paying job, or any job for that matter, that you would wear a short sleeved shirt? Much like the chicken and egg, which comes first, the dead end job or the tattoo sleeve? When you are at a bar, do you roll up your sleeves hoping the girl notices the naked pictures of your ex-girlfriend, in order to start a conversation? Isn’t this just like the rich guy who makes sure his Rolex is always front and center? So many questions. Maybe I should tattoo them on my arm so I don’t forget them.

Fattys Must Pay

Put down your Egg McMuffin’s and tune in, this ones for you fattys. In America, we have a great system of freedom and punishment. You are free to do what you want as long as you are willing to take on the punishment of your actions. Smokers can smoke (At least for the next couple years), drinkers can drink (Irish unite), and fattys can stuff their piehole’s with, well, pies.

We have a severe problem in America with healthcare. You see if you don’t work, don’t make any money, and suckle on the tit of Uncle Sam (Dude has huge areolas by the way), you can’t get healthcare insurance. At least that’s my take on it. I notice that smokers pay higher premiums than non-smokers. This makes sense since they will be dying soon by slipping in a puddle of their own phlegm and choking on their own lung lymphoma. But why don’t we make fattys pay more for insurance. This is pretty easy. No tests to take, no mouth swabs, just use your peepers. If the patient has 3 chins, gets winded getting up on the exam table, or tries to eat the tongue depressors, then they are red stamped on their chart and maybe their forehead for good measure.

Why can’t we do this? Because we don’t want to offend the fattys of America. After all, they stimulate the economy with their insane insuppressible appetite for food and Lane Bryant sales.

Cracker Monkey

At what point did we become completely inept at discerning reality? I am writing this while eating one of my favorite snacks, Animal Crackers. So I look at the bag and notice numerous omissions and downright mis-truths. This is bothersome because I do not like to be lied to, especially by a monkey hanging from the “S” in “Crackers”. Let’s start right there, shall we? These are NOT “Crackers”. These are cookies. Anyone who thinks crackers have nonfat milk in them should be forced to eat Ritz crackers in a cereal bowl for breakfast. But “Cracker” sounds so much more healthy (If not a bit racist) than cookie.

Now the previously mentioned monkey is holding a balloon that says “Low Fat”. Really? So you’re telling me these “Crackers” are actually good for me? Sweet….err I mean salty, after all they are “Crackers”. Flip the bag over though and 1 serving gets you 10% of your daily carb count but no fat. Last and least are the warnings. When did Animal “Crackers” need a warning? Aren’t they about the most non-threatening snack ever made? Even the Lion looks like he parties with the kids. But since we have produced a mountain of mutant children (Thanks to our lack of Darwinism), we have to tell you that there are trace amounts of peanuts and tree nuts in these. I thought we established that these are “Crackers”? What “Crackers” have peanuts in them? I smell a conspiracy. I think Congress must subpoena the monkey and have him testify to the fact that these are not “Crackers” but in fact cookies.

Note – I consumed approximately 25 “Crackers” while writing this and have used up 25% of my daily carb intake. Fucking lying monkey!

Story For Today

Allow me to set the scene like a Shakespearian Maestro.....

Your humble narrator is walking down a downtown street in "Any City", USA and is approached by a fine, upstanding street citizen. Let's listen in.....

Citizen Dirt - "Do you have any change?"

{Narrator digs around in pocket and jingles numerous coins in his hand for effect}

Narrator - "Actually, yes I do"

{Narrator continues walking past Citizen Dirt}

The End

I Know How Lance Bass Feels

For once, the crazy butt cheek puckered liberals of America may be right. Hold your gasping breath gentle reader for I have said the ghastly simply to prove a point.

So here I am, finishing up the last leg of a truly great American pastime; Selling something on EBay. The process is so delectably simple. Post your ad, pay your fees, wait, wait, wait, sell item, print shipping label, box and mail the item. Ahh, that last one gets a little hairy. Since my box is just slightly heavier than 16oz drop weight, I have to take it to the local Post Office (I realize I could take it almost anywhere to drop it off but I am lucky enough to work across the street from the oldest Post Office in town. It’s quite quaint and charming, more on that in a second).

I stroll in to the light morning air and across the busy downtown street to the sight of many metaphorical killing jokes. Through the golden doors, which interestingly are automatic even though the doors must be 80 years old, and into the lobby where upon a metal detector has been installed. I am all for safety and hate terrorism just as much as the next patriot but this seems a little much. No bother, I empty my pockets and place my non-ticking box on the conveyor belt. Now gentle reader, I know you will be shocked to here that the detector went off, alerting everyone to my evil plot of mailing an inert package. After a brief wanding and a latex enema, I am on my way. America is safe. Of course I cannot just drop off my package. No, packages might contain 2 tons of manure and ammonium nitrate, so I get to wait in line for 10 minutes to tell the lady that I have removed all plastic explosives from the box before I taped it up.

Is this really necessary? Is a medium sized city’s Post Office really a target for anything other than nerdy stamp collectors? Do we really need this much protection? I for one emphatically say yes. Now excuse me while I pull that latex glove out of my ass.

Sorry About That

So that last post about a month ago not only wreaked of effort but it was also a month ago. I am working on a more consistent approach for my devout reader (Singular, please note that). So here goes.......

Metro Pimp Player

Rollin on four-four’s wit no tread
Up and down da block like Barney and Fred
Kidneys bouncing cuz I couldn’t afford
The shoes to go on my ’86 Ford

I spew rhymes like a cunning linguist
Vocabulary so limited
Nothing rhymes with Linguist
Dammit

My condo is blowin up from the heat
Of a hot day, A/C is nothing but an extra treat
500k doesn’t go a long way
Here in LA

I’m a Metro pimp player
Matching khakis with my I-Pod, Love that John Mayer
Head bouncing, like I’m in the groove
Real gangstas comin up the street so I better move
To the other side before they shank me
Headin to the clinic to test for the HIV

I’m a Metro pimp player

Buyin rounds of cosmos at the local pub
Braggin on my new double dubs
Ho’s think I’m harmless
Guys think my hairs a mess
They don’t understand it’s the new style
Of the metro pimp player

I’m a dying breed among the uninitiated
Maybe its time for a new look
Emo, Punk, and grunge are so played out
The metro pimp player is what I’m all about

Germaphobes

Bird Flu, AIDS, and Herpes of the mouth have nothing on this new disease of the mind. I have never seen so many intelligent people fall victim to something so utterly stupid in my life. Tulips and internet stocks had more legitimate reasoning than germaphobia. You see it everywhere, public places, restrooms, doting moms.

Of course my favorite is the public restroom. The germaphone goes into the bathroom without touching the handle on the door, does their business, washes up, uses the towel to open the door back up, but never thinks about all the bacteria in the air; the bacteria that is hundreds of times worse than bacteria on porcelain (Which has been proven to be minimal). Maybe a gas mask would be in order.

The other is the mom who is constantly cleaning their kids with anti-bacterial soap, wipes and acid baths. The kid needs to be exposed to germs or they will never develop an immune system. I say let the kid be Farmer Fred and go pick some nose goblins. Then swallow them down with the pride of a fat man at an all you can eat Crisco buffet.

Another I-Cubed Sighting

Today I saw an I-Cubed attempt to use a gas station water hose to fill his tires with air.

Idiotic-Idiosyncratic-Idioms

Every so often you get to see the not so rare and beautiful city dwelling species; the Idiotic-Idiosyncratic-Idioms (From her out referred to as the “I-Cubed”. I saw two such species on my way through the thickly overgrown streets of downtown. The first was in his most natural of habitats; the oversized truck. This particular fauna was an older male with the normal gray markings on its head and the usual white coffee cup in one hand. He was maneuvering his chariot looking for a place to leave it while he attended to his ritualistic daily patterns. However this particular parking lot has two entrances. One has a very obvious tollbooth and a sign saying “Public Entrance”. The second has no tollbooth, a card reader, a large gate, and an extremely large sign that says “Monthly Parking Only” with more verbage to the fact that daily public parking was down the road at the other entrance.

This I-Cubed pulled right up to the gate marked “Monthly Parking” and began to stare wildly at the card reader. He probably mistook it for a mate but one can not be sure. During this long break from his usual caffeinated induced drudgery, two cars pull up behind him waiting to get in. At this point the I-Cubed realizes he cannot get in by hitting the card reader with his dinosaur bone and attempts to back his chariot out. After nearly hitting the car behind him, he begins to use his distress call and puts his chariot in reverse. The two cars behind him realize they have an I-Cubed on their hands, attempted to back out of the driveway. Unfortunately for all, this particular street is quite busy and neither car can back up. At this point the I-Cubed begins to resemble a hominid in heat and begins to beat on his chariot’s steering wheel with ruthless abandon, sending blaring calls through the skies of the urban jungle.

Fearing for my life, I begin to pick up my pace. I know from experience that these episodes can get extremely dangerous. After a block I looked back as the I-Cubed shook its hairy paw and roared out it’s window.

Shit If I Know

Why does everyone tap their watch when the battery dies? Are they trying to wake up the watch fairy?

My Daily Walk

I always wonder what I am going to write about in this Blog. Today was no exception. Every day I try and get out of my office downtown and take a walk. It gives me a little exercise and I get to see some great fodder. First I head down the elevator. This is usually an experience but luckily there was only a co-worker with me. Of course this is someone I have never talked to in my life who figures its important to make idle chit-chat. I’m not a fan of talking for talking’s sake. It’s only 30 seconds of silence, would it kill you to keep your trap shut?

So I roll out of my daily abode and across the street to hit the bank. I have to pay for parking so I have to make this trip once a week. I walk by “Cesar Chavez Park”. Yes they named a park after this tyrant but I digress. Let the fun begin.

The first person I come across is a 200 lb girl who somehow wedged herself in what appears to be a teal, chiffon evening dress. Not a pretty sight. And of course I am behind her. Then I see her shoes. Picture a donkey hoof sitting on top of a popsicle stick with a 10 penny nail sticking out the bottom. The scariest part is I noticed some guys checking out this oompa loompa. Shudder to think.

Next comes the random old man sitting in a fold out chair on the corner of a busy street. Then the typical white garbage in his lovely sweat stained wife beater. Follow this up with another dreg of society coming out of a Subway telling everyone not to go in there “Cuz they a bunch of motherfucking faggots.” Of course he has his four year old girl in tow. Followed by the hundred’s of well dressed lobbyists around the Capitol. And last but not least, the two fully tattooed and pierced gentlemen talking about one of them trying to get a promotion; most likely at the local Carl’s Jr.

And some wonder why I go on these walks.

I Wonder

You ever notice that the handicapped bathroom stalls all flush with more force than the other stalls? Do Handis naturally have bigger droppings?

The Cost of Stupidity

At what point do we look at ourselves and say, “Wow, I am a dumb fuck”? Of course that will never happen to me due to my incredible level of intelligence, narcissism and general good looks. However it needs to happen to a lot of people. Let the diatribe light up.

I was watching one of the many “Reality” shows about rich and mildly retarded but fully siliconed girls. This one was called “Daddy’s Spoiled Little Girl”. I won’t even bore you with the mundane details of how they spent $19k on 3 snowmobiles that they will never ride or the 100k they gambled in Tahoe in a weekend. No these two 30 year old girls (I use the term girls more to describe their mental capacity then their age) live off of daddy and have nothing to show for it. Neither of them could construct a coherent thought with both their brains yet they have what many intelligent people want: money.

Which leads me to that annoying little saying; “It’s not the destination but the journey.” These two dunder-sluts will never know happiness outside of their tiaras. They will never know the joy of accomplishing or creating. Of course they will know the heartbreak of one night stands and STD’s, but that’s another story.