Speed Kills!

Speed Kills!

I like to drive fast. What’s the point of getting anywhere if you can’t get there fast? Isn’t there some saying about the journey being the most important part of going somewhere? If this is true why does some nut have to tamper with how I get to wherever I’m going?

That’s what speed bumps do. Who puts those damnable things in the middle of the road, anyway? What right do they have as to how fast I wish to go in my super turbocharged Geo Metro DX ES XP Master’s Ltd Ed. 21,143 DOHC? Oops, can’t forget the wing—er, spoiler, that is.

Cops bother me, too. Just last night I had one in front and two in back of me. I guess they thought I was about to do something wrong. They probably have a special watch just for me. They probably talk about me all the time over their radios (at least I like to think I’m this popular) like I’m some kind of dope dealer they’re just waiting to bust when they finally catch me in the act.

Fortunately, there is an easy way to have fun with a smoky bear when he’s on your tail. The one thing they all love to do is drive fast. Have you ever noticed these hypocrites? They must all think they’re special or something—especially when they have those whirly-birds on their car roofs flashing and screaming.

Well, there’s something you can do about it! Drive slower. You know they hate it. And if you want to make things really interesting, do this when they have their flashy lights turned on.

I’m also not a fan of stoplights, so I don’t let them stop me. It’s not my fault if they turn red at all the wrong times. My otherwise beloved small town in Pennsylvania is not like other towns you’ve been in when if you time it right, you hit all the green lights consecutively. No, that would be too easy. Here, if you time it just right, you have to run all the red lights consecutively.

And we’re also not allowed to turn right on red (at least that’s what they think, tee hee hee). There’s even one intersection that is comprised of two one-way streets. The only way to have an accident by turning on red there is if another car is coming the wrong way up the one-way street.

The pedestrians are another thing altogether. Pedestrians have no respect for cars. I think it should be made legal if I bump off some old guy with a walker who was crossing where he shouldn’t have been—or even if he was crossing where he should have been, for that matter. Wouldn’t that just add more fun and excitement? Besides, streets were meant for vehicles, not people. Who do they think they are?

Perhaps I’m overreacting, but I doubt it. You see, if there were no laws restricting drivers from bumping off the occasional pedestrian—or even the often pedestrian—then people would watch more carefully. They wouldn’t be so disrespectful. Better still, it would put the speed bump makers out of business—what with the human speed bumps everywhere. And that would make any journey worth the while.

Just Say No!

Here is an article I had published in a school newspaper about six months ago.

Alright, here I go. I’m going in face first. I know it may be tough. But hey, I’m a man. I can take it. What I’m about to say may offend a few. It may offend a lot. Or maybe it won’t offend anyone at all—well, except maybe my pet llama who’s really hungry as I write this. Well anyway, here goes!

You know that whole thing that all sorts of people in all sorts of places have been talking about? You know that….umm….thing? Umm…well…you know what I’m talking about…don’t you? What? You don’t? Alright..well...maybe you don’t. GAY MARRIAGE! There, I said it. Whew, that actually didn’t hurt much. I suppose to please my editor though, I have to say a little more than that. Alright, well, here goes: I’m not an advocate of same-sex marriage. In fact, I really don’t like it, umm…even a little bit. For the reasons why I’m not a fan, please refer to my website at www.spineless.com. Well…on second thought, maybe I should just tell you. Besides, if you go to my website you’ll see that it’s not actually mine—it’s my sister’s. Oops! I forgot I don’t have a sister. Truth be known, I don’t like same-sex marriage very much because, well, it’s different, you know. Oh come on now, you know it is! How can you not know something is a little strange about the idea of one man marrying another or two women marrying each other? I know, I know, it’s also strange that for every marriage there are 3,536 divorces all across the Fruited Plain, but you’re not going to trick me into changing the subject now that I’m on a roll.

WARNING: The next few things I’m about to say may be unsuitable for the faint of heart, so I would advise those who are to read and reread the following paragraph at least 50 times to get your heart back into shape. (Note: out of the fear of my expert opinion being incorrect I have not consulted with your cardiologist).

There are a few perks that come with marriage. First of all, it’s nice to have someone always there to take care of your every need—say, for instance, someone to squeeze your pimples. Another benefit is sex (just because I rank them in this order doesn’t mean you have to). Speaking of sex (here’s the part I warned you about), when a man and a woman put their bodies together and…well…you know…do that thing they do, there is a sort of, well…a natural fit. Something akin to picking one’s nose. I think God knew what he was doing when he created the finger of man—and woman—at just the right size to get the job done (he did a particularly excellent job in my case). But in any event, if you put two men together in the holy order of patrimony—oops, I mean matrimony—the second greatest benefit of marriage (sex, remember?) becomes, well, somehow changed. It’s like the parts don’t fit. Now, since I’ve never actually tried it myself I can’t be absolutely sure, but I have a pretty good idea of how men might try to make it fit. Unfortunately, however, due to spatial constraints (I am limited to only 30,000 words here), I can only express to the men with same-sex attraction that I’m concerned that you may poke out an eyeball should you attempt to pick your nose. Unfortunately, for the females who are attracted to other women, I’m afraid you’ll never be able to pick your nose at all (figuratively speaking, that is) unless you—well, nevermind…

There is, of course, much more that can be said about same-sex marriage. Much has already been said by those in favor and by those who oppose it. Personally, yes, I think it is wrong. However, if, like me, you’re more interested in a personally handcrafted pimple squeeze every now and then than you are in sex, I say what the heck, take a walk down the Aisle with that man, woman, or llama of your dreams. Just remember, llamas are easily offended.

Tolerate This!

What’s up with this tolerance thing? Teach tolerance this, teach tolerance that. Surely you’ve heard this before. Just what does it mean? And for all of you who use this codespeak, admit it, you know what I’m talking about.

Tolerance is not my favorite word. Well, actually I don’t like it very much at all. In fact, I detest it! It is eeeviiiiill. I hate it! I hate it! I hate it! If I was in charge (don’t worry, no one would be witless enough to give me any power), I would enact a law that states if anyone is caught using this word (or even if they’re not caught!), he or she can choose one of two penalties for his punishment: 1) immediate public beheading performed by spouse, or, 2) being subjected to the wannabe words ‘yada yada yada’ 4,836 times in a row. Personally I would choose #1. But since I’m remaining objective here I will abstain from saying so.

Why, you may ask, would I choose such extreme penalties as these? To this, I have only one answer: I am an extremely tolera—oops, I mean lenient guy. I mean, if I really wanted to get nasty I would choose to punish the Tolerant Society by secluding myself to some remote island so no one would ever hear from me again; fortunately though, I’m too nice a guy.

I suppose I should explain why I take the position I do about (t-word). I can think of two reasons:

First, the definition of (enter t-word here) carries a negative connotation. It means to put up with; to forbear begrudgingly. Take, for example, the following two sentences regarding two 3 year old friends. One describes tolerance, one doesn’t:

1) Johnny told Sally he guessed he’d just have to risk the potential for emotional instability being friends with her would cause him, since his best friend, 4 year-old Stevie, had said to him, ‘Sally is not exactly a charmer.’

2) Johnny told Sally to go hang herself on his pappy’s hog slaughtering meat hook.”

Can you tell which of these is pro-(t-word)? If not, let me explain it to you like I was in 4th grade: The first sentence depicts the amoral rationale of the multifacetudinously exponentiality of the directive proffered in the Conciliatory Conference held in Dwain’s basement when we were tired of playing PlayStation (Dwain is my other best friend). Unlike the first sentence, which was full of PC BS (politically correct fertilizer, for those of you in higher ed.), the second one establishes a clear, if not lucid, description of why just three days later Sally was found firmly ensconced in the air on…nevermind.

Here is why the scenario described in sentence 2, the anti-(t-word) sentence, is preferred. If you were Johnny, would you like to feel pressured to put up with Sally even though you didn’t like her? Or would you prefer to be honest and truthful—in other words, have her killed? Don’t answer that. (Note: Sally’s viewpoint was not represented here due to her untimely passing.)

The second reason I object to (t-word) is because those who spread it—The Almighty I Know What is Best For Society Scholars—would have the rest of us numbnuts' believe that we should all join hands in a big circle, sing Kumbaya, and whisper sweet nothings into each others’ ears. Frankly, this would be okay with me because I need a vacation. But, unfortunately, since I’ve used up all my vacation time cutting down 900 year old sequoias in the Amazon, I think I’ll just have to wait until next year.

Walking Billboards

What is it these days about people and labels? People are mostly smart (at least I like to think so), so here is something I do not get. Why is it that people—and it seems most people do—confine themselves so readily to being labeled by some company who is making money off their own willingness to paint themselves into Dale Earnhardt, Jr. or some other icon? I love walking down the street and being sold to by Nike, Old Navy, or Bud Light or whatever company has successfully extracted a few bucks from some mindless nabob. I can’t help but wonder if the thought had even crossed the mind of the unsuspecting victim that he or she’d been had. I mean, shouldn’t it be the other way around? Shouldn’t a person be paid to be a walking billboard? You don’t ever see any roadside billboards standing in line at the local rescue mission or the teeny-bopper mall to purchase the garnishment that would cover their own nakedness, do you? Of course not! And you’ll never see me stoop to that level, either.

In fact, when I was pimply-faced and insecure—wait, I still am. I mean when I was in school, I was never reduced to self-labeling or calling myself a variety of names--I had friends to do that for me.

So I just don’t get it.

And then there are those people who drive around with a cute little oval on their bumper which says OBX? What on earth is an OBX?! And why is it these people want me to know that they like OBX? I actually have my very own secret theory that these people are the degenerative progeny of the earliest cavemen and that they are still utilizing their ancestral language that only they know in order to make them feel sophisticated.

But now it’s even worse. We’ve got all these other idiotic indecipherable white ovals plastered to every piece of available space imaginable. I guess these sophisticates are now becoming even more sophisticated. In fact, just yesterday I saw stationary OBX hubcaps. That’s right, you heard me! While the car is moving these things stay upright. They must be weighted somehow so that the letters don’t turn while the car is moving. Wow! Now, if it’s really true what these modern cave dwellers say—I overheard once that OBX is Cavespeak for the Outer Banks—I’m grabbing my wife and kids immediately and am going to spend my two week vacation along the Carolina coast just to find out what the hubbub is all about. Perhaps while I’m down there I’ll find my answer while walking along the beach with a kid at each hand as the sun sets over the beautiful water.

But if not, the next time I see any vehicle with that annoying white oval and those same black letters, I’m going to jump from my car, rip that thing off, and save someone else from the deception—and from spending a few of their precious hard-earned dollars on a wasted trip when instead they could use their money on something worthwhile—like a baseball cap with a big fat checkmark on it!

Election Depression

This one I wrote just after the last presidential election.

The presidential election is over and I’m depressed and in need of serious help. I hope there is someone out there who, while I hope is not afflicted with the same degree of depression as I am, can at least understand what I am going through and offer some encouraging words to cheer me up. For the last few weeks I have been very tired and emotionally spent. I have not at all been sleeping well and when I do, I have had the worst nightmares I’ve had in years. I have not been doing well in school and I have at times (to mine and my family’s dismay) involuntarily shouted obscenities for no apparent reason at all. To be sure, yes, I am angry; as I am sure many of you are at the outcome of the election. But more than just being angry, I am sad.

Maybe I need counseling. I have thought about it and, like some of the John Kerry supporters in Palm Beach County, Florida, perhaps I should try it. In case you haven’t heard there have been at least fifty Kerry supporters who are in group therapy for treatment of a new disorder called PEST. PEST stands for Post Election Selection Trauma and, ironically, many of the symptoms I have experienced are exactly the same as what these particular Floridians have had.

These symptoms have been described by the county’s American Health Association (AHA) director, Robert J. Gordon and some of the patients there. The Boca Raton News website quoted one of the patients there as being scared. “Democracy is at stake and nobody is rising to protest this president,” the patient said. “According to AHA officials,” states the website, “symptoms of PEST are similar to post-traumatic stress disorder. They include nightmares, sleeplessness, hostility, listlessness…” Gordon said, “If I had a cardboard cutout of President Bush and these people wanted to throw darts at it, I would let them do it… It’s no joke. People with PEST were traumatized by the election. If you even mention religion, their faces turn blister-red as they shout at Bush.” Gordon also said, “More than anything else, people with PEST tremble physically.” According to AHA officials, one of the symptoms even includes threats to leave the country.

Come to think of it, no wonder I’m so angry, sad, and depressed. Wouldn’t you be, too, if you realized that such great entertainment was about to leave the country?