Kill Your TV, Stupid

Ask yourself how many TV shows you’ve watched this past year. Go ahead and say it aloud. Did you do that? I can’t hear you, because I’m not there. Nor is anyone on the other side of that screen that most people spend hours every day passively staring at.

If you did say it aloud, you’ve passively accepted and obeyed a command from someone you likely will never meet. This is how watching TV works. This behavior, exhibited by over a billion people every day, is one of the many reasons why most people are stupid.

Apparently people do this voluntarily or we wouldn’t have prime-time television. If you choose to partake in this passive sport, that’s your freedom of choice to be among the many who just let life roll on by. I can’t remember the last time I sat down to watch a TV show, or what that TV show was! That’s not to say I’m stupid. We all do and say stupid things, but some of us to a lesser degree than others.

But it’s this passivity of watching TV that’s the problem. A TV is just a box with sound and pictures. It can’t grow beyond that or it wouldn’t be a TV anymore. And because people refuse to accept their passive behavior, realize they’re stupid, then they will never grow beyond the couch.

It’s not just time spent watching TV that’s stupid, either. It’s money, too! No, no, not the money you could be earning if you weren’t watching TV, nor the money that the TV itself cost. I’m talking about subscriptions to services that cost in the hundreds per month. I hear from people they’re spending well over $200 a month on TV alone! That’s enough to feed a family of four for a few weeks, if you stretch it out correctly.

So where’s the math in that? If you can save $200 a month for one year, and feed your family for an extra two weeks per each of those months, then don’t you feel stupid with that large TV bill? How many times do you need to see your favorite football team play, twelve times a year… for ten years. That’s $200 x 12 x 10… that’s $24,000! Bet you didn’t think of that math, no did you? You can buy Superbowl tickets for less than that, and have a once in a lifetime, unforgettable moment seeing LIVE football.

They Sold Us Dreams

They sold us dreams. They sold us dreams so they could get what they wanted, and convinced us to want what they were willing to give.

I’m from a generation that doesn’t want big toys. We don’t want a home in suburbia that looks like the rest. We despise minivans and trophies for showing up. We don’t want to raise a nuclear family on this waste they have left us.

We are human, last time I checked. We prefer not to be castrated for a difference of opinion, one not rooted in bigotry or grown from misguided hatred.

The world that has been built cannot sustain the human spirit. It is built to bind that which creates into submission for a few dreams. We are working to ruin these so-called pillars of strength that have only sought to uphold the Big Dream.

We fear not the failure to achieve our dreams, but that we will not eat, have a place to sleep, and health to live. We decide not to turn to a life of crime, yet the expectation of our dedication to the Big Dream eats away at the energy of this experience we call life.

This is my experience.

I know what it’s like to live a life without work, without income, for fifteen months. It’s not fun eating just oatmeal every day for four months, nor is it healthy. When you have just ten dollars in the bank, and everyone ignores your attempts to find work, your career filtered through some algorithm because a lazy ass employer can’t be bothered to actually read your application and resume… you hate everything.

Thirteen of those fifteen months I spent virtually alone in one room. Writing. Writing my fucking heart and soul out. People responded to it… people I never met, and will never meet. The people I did know didn’t give a fuck. All they wanted was for me to go back to working a miserable job and shut up.

Desperation set in, sure, but my love for writing has never wavered. I am a writer and I believe I have always been. Artwork is fun, but it’s not the most fulfilling for me.

Two and a half years into the job I have now, and I do not feel any closer to my goal of being a full-time writer and author. I’m not even a part time writer. I’ve never had a paying writing gig.

I’m on the fifth draft of my novel, which already has a sequel, and I’m finding it hard to write, for that constant feeling of, even if I do accomplish it, nobody’s going to read it. Like the last four times I’ve tried.

I just want to do what I love without being sick, in poverty, and without a place to sleep. Sure, I’m doing well financially, but at the cost to my time, freedom, and life. The only reason I stay up late is to actually have time to myself. I’m sacrificing my time, for who? It certainly doesn’t seem to be me.

The Electric Car Buzz

martooni-girly-300pxDo you like your buzz and drink your booze like it’s water? I bet you’d love to know that in the not too distant future your drink of choice will experience a price reduction, allowing you to consume more of this American dietary staple. And this comes from an unlikely source: electric cars.

You may ask how an electric car would fuel a surge in the alcoholic beverage industry. It will be done through a systematic reduction in resource usage and an increase in tax breaks, all while tapping into this generation’s never ending love to be environmentally friendly and economically irresponsible.

Once electric vehicles dominate the market, the oil industry will have to scale back gasoline production. Since ethanol is an ingredient in both alcohol and clean burning gasoline, the drastic drop in demand will send prices falling faster than your best friend on St Patty’s Day. Following the laws of supply and demand, ethanol becomes a buyer’s market, one the makers of Coors and Bud Light will no doubt saturate, making it easier for consumers to satisfy their thirst. Feel free to get your buzz on and celebrate the death of the internal combustion engine.

Electric cars are destined to drive themselves, giving brewers every incentive to invest in the technological advancement of artificial intelligence. Not only does artificial intelligence reduce drunk driving accidents, it also reduces the need for intelligence amongst drivers. A bet on a computer to drive three thousand pounds of steel is a good bet for us all.

For the people in this generation who like to call government handouts a means to support society, feel free to know that several tax breaks, incentives, and reduction in expenditures for local law enforcement, are on their way. With lower drunk driving incidents, you’ll see a smaller police force and reduced enrollment of DUI and traffic schools, freeing up funds, likely to pay for rehab.

Whatever will the police do after last call? Maybe they’ll look for real criminals, such as this generation’s sick pedophiles, murderers, and arrest those baby boomers who stole social security to fuel their wild retirements. Remember, don’t trust anyone over fifty.

Lastly, on a sad note, you may lose a friend along the way to advancing society’s plunge into the drowning pool. Sacrifices will be made when your designated drinker remains sober against the new wave of automated alcohol, refusing to binge and purge with the rest of the party. Who needs a sane, coherent friend, anyway? Many of us aren’t there ourselves.

Running on the Sidewalk: Downhill Edition

Running on the Sidewalk: Downhill Edition

  1. Find a high hill within your neighborhood. Dead-ends work best. Make sure there is a sidewalk that goes up high enough you can’t see the houses at the top.
  2. Wear your best sneakers, preferably non-slip running shoes.
  3. Hike up the hill, or hitch a ride with the nearest car to drive by in that general direction.
  4. Study the road below, taking in the curvature near the end at the first crossroad.
  5. Start running.
  6. Jump over every block of concrete that has one of those small, metal rivets. It’s usually every third or fourth.
  7. Keep running.
  8. Push aside anyone walking in your path; you’ve got somewhere to go, and it’s important that you get there before they do.
  9. Keep on running. You’re almost there.
  10. Never mind the hard pounding of your feet. It’s only a natural side-effect of gravity and velocity.
  11. When you reach the cross roads, try to stop abruptly at the corner of the sidewalk. Grab hold of the stop sign if you can. If there is no stop sign, throw yourself on the ground. Remember, stop drop and roll is for more than just fires.

In the event that you fall forward, avoid placing your palms ahead of you. Tuck and roll, firmly pushing your knees to your chest. Studies have shown that those who fall on the sidewalk are ten-times more likely to avoid scars if they assume the fetal position.

Big Picture Show

There was once a time in my life where I cared about society’s problems. I felt a debate was worth it. And I should do my part and voice my opinion. However, through my twenties, I confirmed my suspicion that giving a shit about the big picture is a complete and utter waste of time.

I don’t care about drug use. I don’t care if athletes use steroids and their neck explodes. Not my mess to clean up. Feel free to legalize weed, crack, and meth. Not only will it bring us good entertainment on the morning news, it will let the species sort out the weak minded as they crash and burn harder and faster. If we want a real debate if evolution is real, I say, let’s witness it first-hand.

I don’t care about the privacy debate. If it means they get what they want, people will give information to the highest bidder or lowest cost alternative. Concerning Apple’s stance to refuse decryption of the iPhone of a dead terrorist: I don’t give a fuck. He’s dead. Justice has been served in the proper manner. He fought the law, and the law won. No further answers need to be.

The media and lawyers have convinced people that closure can only be achieved through a thorough understanding of the criminal mind. I don’t give a shit about the mind of a pedophile, a murderer, an arsonist, or anything else. In case you haven’t been tracking the news over the past thirty years, but this sad attempt at solving a bigger problem – preventing crime itself – is a complete waste of time. This attempt to understand, to know more, is worthless. Take a page from the old West: shoot first and ask questions later.

Adulthood: A 4th Grade Presentation

Hi, kids! It’s me, Uncle Carl from Carl’s Corner! That crevice where two walls meet where nobody else hangs out. Your teacher asked me to give you a presentation on the wonders of adult life today. If anyone needs to take a shit, now’s the time to do it.

Nobody? Good. I didn’t want to wait anyway.

Now sit there behind your state-issued, lifeless, cold desks with its inoffensive yellow smoothness, and plant your ass on the equally uncomfortable plastic chairs that will give you back problems for the rest of your lives. Uncle Carl is going to tell you what Mommy and Daddy do while you’re stuck here in this prison.

First, your parents told you this place would be fun. Sure, you believed them, when in kindergarten you ran around carelessly meeting friends, painting pictures, and drinking glue. Wasn’t that a special time of your life? I bet you miss it already. Now you’re frozen in line, quiet as a statue, studious and awaiting instructions, from an unbiased textbook written by some loser who couldn’t do anything meaningful with his knowledge.

For some of you, Daddy is at work, while Mommy is taking care of the home. She’s out shopping to buy you new clothes, cleaning up not only after you, but also your Dad. Picking up his beer cans, wiping his crumbs off the dinner table, because her drunk bastard of a husband never learned to eat with his mouth closed.

Don’t you just hate when your parents tell you how to eat? “Chew with your mouth closed!” What’s mom afraid of, having her son emulate his father? She’s already repulsed by one man, the last thing she wants is to see a miniature one, like a midget in a bad holiday movie. Chew with your mouth closed, kids. It just might get you laid.

The rest of you probably have a Mommy who does all the work. Daddy doesn’t have a job. When you get home, I bet the house looks like shit. Clothes and dishes are everywhere, and both mom and dad are too tired from work to clean. Except Daddy isn’t the one who’s really tired; he just acts that way because he wants people to feel sorry for his lazy ass.

Kids, your Mommy’s the real victim here.

You little girls here will learn one day how much men shit on women. You’ll be expected to have a career, be a full time mother, and still pick up the shit stained underwear mysteriously left in the halls of your once beautiful home. On top of that, you’re expected to have a perky attitude about all your contributions, unless you want to be called an ugly cunt.

There’s a word you girls will come to love: contribution. You’re expected not only to be the family mediator, while Daddy’s hot temper gets his fist within swinging distance of Mommy’s tits, others in your neighborhood will expect you to get involved in community activities, unless you want to be judged as a crazy old maid who hates everyone.

Boys, get an education, because these independent, career-minded women won’t deal with picking up after your shit for long. They’ll earn their own money, because in today’s world, women don’t have to submit to being beaten in the middle of dinner because they forgot to pay the electric bill. You know, between making lunch for everyone in the family, dressing the kids, and the father, then cleaning up that orange juice that just won’t come off the table, and somehow making it to work on time, where she’ll have to blow her boss just to keep her job.

Did I mention Mommy works harder than Daddy, and Daddy complains more than Mommy? I hope you boys learn who the real bitch in the relationship is, because I can tell you right now, she doesn’t have a pair of tits and vagina.

How’s the cafeteria food around here? Judging by the burgeoning waistline of 40% of you, it must be pretty good. What are they feeding the other 60%, broccoli and that celery stick with peanut butter and raisins? That’s called ants on a log, a nutritious and delicious snack for people who, later in life, will suffer from insecurity and depression because they’re worried about their body image. Especially you women, who will have those thoughts beaten into you from men and other women who think they’re prettier than you.

I like to think they feed you kids right, but I know they don’t. When I was a kid, they started taking milk out of a carton, and putting it into a bag. A shitty little pouch you punched a straw into and squeezed the milk out, like squeezing a girl’s tits. Some of you will experience that some day, the rest of you boys will just lie about it.

Moving along, don’t they give you some salad, in those tiny cups, already soaked in ranch dressing? It’s not enough. Salad itself is not enough for a kid. They should just give you kids a whole head of lettuce and a bottle of Creamy Caesar from Ken’s Kitchen. Now that I take another glance at you buckets of lard, might want to make it Lite Creamy Caesar.

I can tell by the depressed look on some of you that you’ve been bullied. I got news for you: it never ends. The bullies continue to be assholes well into adult life. Not that you’d notice. There is no Disney movie miracle that plays out where the kid getting his ass kicked today becomes the hero tomorrow.

Bullies just learn new tricks. They like to disguise themselves today as masters of the art of finance, economics, business management, and running technology start-ups funded by their bully friend investors, who earned their money from laundering and bully tactics. Bully tactics, like suing your best friend for five-billion dollars and fifteen years in prison, just for sharing one too many MP3s of Hannah Montana.

Alright, I think it’s time I covered the topic of sex, my 4th-graded individuals. Sex is a three-letter word that sells anything, especially to idiots. Sex is an act of love, lust, and something insecure women do when they’re shit-faced drunk, and some of you will find this out in college. The rest of you will never know what it’s like to have sex with a girl under the age they have to lie about.

That last one doesn’t include you little ladies, as you’ll learn that society has little problem with girls experimenting with girls, and a severe hatred of guys experimenting with guys. Part of that male dominance and double standard you’ll encounter: lesbians are hot, fags should be beaten.

Don’t forget disease, children! When you get to high school, you’ll be reminded by your teachers about how having sex can make you sick, disgusting, and need to lay on a hospital gurney, gripping your balls as you scream out in agony, shouting, “Why did I fuck that whore!?”

One message after the other will be thrown your way that sex, and wanting sex, is a sin. A terrible thing that can get you in trouble, ruin your finances, and turn that prom queen girlfriend into an old hag overnight. Some of you will have the confidence to not give a shit and fuck each other anyway; some of you will be so afraid that you’ll wait until you get drunk in college to wake up and find out you won’t remember your first time; still, others will fuck and fondle themselves, to the world’s freest source of sexual stimulation, the Internet.

Speaking of things that give you bad information, I have one final lesson to prepare you for the adult world: you will endure for the next eight years one terrible message after the other, rooted in a neurotic hatred of life from teachers, parents, and other authority figures.

You’ll be told you’re being prepared for the real world. That knowing the middle name of the sixth President of the United States, and who his favorite midnight mistress was, would help you keep that shitty job as a bar mitzvah clown.

You’ll be pressured to succeed, thereby pitting you against the fear of being impoverished. That if you don’t succeed, you’ll be a bum, wearing dirty clothes, getting drunk every night, and pissing on someone else’s lawn. Then again, a lot of you will be doing that in college anyway. The acts aren’t too far off from each other, just under different financial circumstances.

Most of you will be shown a dream of instant success, too. That tossing that cap and gown somehow guarantees you a job like your mom and dad’s. They didn’t tell you the truth, because they don’t want to kill your ambition, but Uncle Carl will: You’ll have to endure one shitty boss after the other. And the more you take it, the longer it will take you to be your own boss. Better get started now, because it’s a short road to complacency, and a long road to independence.

I hope I haven’t scared any of you little guys and gals from becoming an adult. Have a pleasant journey, and see you next year for 5th grade orientation, where I will introduce the wonders of a political landscape that has such a dramatic and meaningful presence in your otherwise insignificant lives.

32 Honest T-Shirt Slogans

Here’s a series of T-shirt slogans I came up with, that people should wear if they wanted to be honest:

  1. I’ll avert my eyes the other way as I pass you.
  2. I never learned how to fully lift my shoes when I walk.
  3. I’m all alone and I’m with stupid.
  4. I only wear this when I forget to do the laundry, which is every weekend.
  5. I don’t really “like big butts,” and I cannot lie: I just can’t do better.
  6. If you talk to me, I’ll be polite for three seconds, then I gotta get the hell outta here.
  7. Don’t even try. I’ve heard that line ten times today.
  8. I don’t remember why I liked this band in the first place.
  9. I’m a no-talent artist without skills, so I write messages like this on white shirts with colored sharpees.
  10. I don’t actually like “Game of Thrones,” but it gives me something better to talk about than my pocket chihuahua.
  11. If this were last night, I wouldn’t be walking a straight line.
  12. I don’t even know what “White Pride” means.
  13. Under these iPhone earbuds I’m actually listening to “Hannah Montana.”
  14. I’m more afraid to see my manboobs than you are.
  15. The only six-pack I’ve had on my chest is the one I stole from Wal-Mart and stuffed under this shirt.
  16. The only high school I attended was St. Mary Jane’s.
  17. You, me, and a bottle of Pepto Bismol equals the last night you let me cook for you.
  18. I’m as high as a kite! What’s a kite?
  19. I’m raging against the machine and it’s my piece of shit car.
  20. Beneath this tight shirt is a treasure trove of hot, sweaty, muscles covered in acne.
  21. I went rock climbing, in my Jeep, which is equipped with all the modern safety equipment known to man. Essentially, I was a p%#@y in a box.
  22. (Alcoholic): Open: Mon-Sat, Happy Hour – Blackout. Closed Sundays in observance of hangovers.
  23. Want to lift this shirt off my chest? Start with lifting away my self-consciousness. But since you’re too dumb to read when staring at my chest…
  24. I can’t pay my bills because I buy things I don’t need, like this shirt.
  25. Save the trees! Save the planet! Screw it, when it comes down to it, I’m saving myself!
  26. Sometimes I listen to songs with lyrics I don’t actually understand.
  27. The only thing I know about AC/DC is that it’s the name of a band. Now, where can I charge my iPhone?
  28. Beneath this shirt is a heart of gold, a chest of steel, and a set of ribs swimming in barbeque sauce.
  29. If I were a real cowboy, this shirt would be plaid, I’d have a real hat on, and both would smell like a farm, instead of AXE body spray.
  30. My boyfriend never lasts more than 15 minutes, but somehow he can endure hours of Grand Theft Auto.
  31. The words on this shirt are stretched because they have lasted me since grade school.
  32. Wouldn’t this shirt be difficult to read if I had a third arm?

How to Care for Your Car

I come from a family that has owned many cars, most of them a piece of shit. What I want to share today are some simple tips on how you can care for your car, and how she’ll care for you. I’ve owned the same car for seven years, and when people get in it, they swear it must be new.

The first tip I want to share is common sense: lube, oil, and filter. One way to ensure you and your car belong with the rest of the steel pile at the demolition derby is to forget to change the the oil.

Men like to think of their cars as girls. So, fellas: the shafts, lifters, and pistons, need to remain lubricated for a smooth, thorough ride, otherwise, dryness may occur. No girl wants a dry shaft.

The next tip is to ensure you drive her carefully. Don’t rush in and slam your foot on the gas pedal. Unless she’s a race car, which means she’s there only to be driven hard to the finish line, she’s meant to be ridden from a smooth start to a clean finish.

Before modern technology, you had to warm your car up. Let her purr for a bit, enjoy the gentle vibration as she gets ready for the road. Even if you’re just going to the drug store for a late night emergency, it’s good practice to let the old girl get used to the outside temperature; your rear end in the driver seat will warm the interior enough.

Besides, you wouldn’t want your girl to not be ready when you go, and she leaves you stranded on the side of the road, with no lights on, and the sounds of hungry wolves nearby remind you how much you screwed that one up.

Which brings me to my next tip: protect her exterior. She drove off the line shining and pretty, hoping a driver like you would pick her over the other cars, and she wants to shine for her whole life.

Wash your car regularly. If all that dirt is left on to be cleaned off another day far away, you’ll find underneath a rusted bucket of steel. You’ll be stuck with her, and she’ll resent being stuck with you. Nobody wants a rusted bucket of steel, but if you make one, you reap what you sow.

Don’t forget the interior: just because a car is beautiful on the outside, doesn’t mean her insides should be left to neglect. Clean that leather (and, for her sake, make sure it’s leather). Clean it so it is so smooth, that when you get in, you slide down to a comfortable position. Nothing is more frightening than a driver who isn’t comfortable at the wheel.

I consider it sacrilegious to eat in your car, especially while driving. You might be tempted to cruise through the drive-thru on your way to or from work, but avoid it. Nothing says, “I don’t care about my car,” more than any kind of white stains that might just be grease, and the stench of hamburgers that have been sitting under a heat lamp since last Tuesday.

Change your tires before they are worn out. I can’t stress how a new pair of shoes feels on your feet, so why should your girl go without a new set when she needs them? Also, on that note, ensure you get the right size and color of tires and wheels (aka, “rims”), to match the color of your car. Nothing says, “I don’t know how to dress myself, mom,” more than rims that look like they belong on a child’s bicycle.

Don’t drive her crazy, or her suspension will break, and all you’ll be left with is a ride that goes all over the place. Go easy over the bumps; the two of you will make it through it.

Handle curves like a pro by slowing down first, leaning along the edge of the turn, and coming out in fine fashion.

Last, don’t cut people off; it’s rude to you, and rude to your car, should she be the one to get rear ended by the other driver. She’ll hate you for the rest of her life if you damage her rear.

One last tip: the love you give your car can be returned only as much as you give to her. Protect her, maintain her, and she’ll take you to all the places you want to go.

Don’t be tempted to trade her in for a newer model, when all it would take is a bit of polish, shine, and some elbow grease to get her running like new.

Ignite her engines. Let her purr. Go for a smooth, beautiful ride, and you’ll never know where the shared road will take you.

Jim, The Old Bastard

Here’s a story about a guy named Jim. Jim don’t give a shit. He don’t give a shit about your kids, your wife, your job, and most of all, he don’t give a shit about you. Probably because Jim is eighty-seven years old and can’t give a shit even if he wanted to. It’s physically impossible for Jim to give a shit. Just ask his wife of sixty-nine years. Or ask his other wife of ninety-six years. Maybe even his third wife, that cute nurse he picked up (or tried to and broke his hip) of thirty-four; that single mother who couldn’t catch a break.

Jim likes to go for a walk each day. Right around noonish, about the time he wakes up from his late-morning nap. Jim once worked his ass off for fifty years so he can sit on his ass for another twenty-three. It has been a thrilling experience for Jim to sit on his boney ass after standing in factory lines, and before a factory boss, and before a factory owner. Then they told Jim to get the fuck out of there and find a real job.

Because Jim wasn’t a factory worker. Jim was a runner. He ran and he ran and he ran some more. He ran until he was sixty five, when he met his eighth wife, Mona, who hit him with her tractor. That bitch. That hot, slutty, twenty-something bitch. She felt so bad about hitting this old man, who was such a charmer, that she couldn’t stand to see him in agony. Her tractor hit Jim about an inch from his crotch. Wow, that would’ve been the end of retirement. One thing led to another, and a typical romance scene ensued (about as much romance as people forty years apart could make), and she had a ring around her finger. Jim also had a ring around his finger, or two fingers for that matter, but it was really something else.

You see, Jim was a sleaze most of his life. Not only did he cheat on his first wife three weeks into their marriage, he never told her about it. The scumbag! At least give her a chance for revenge. But poor old Betty passed around just four years before Jim retired. She caught some disease, or something, because she’s not really a part of this tale so it doesn’t matter. This is a story about Jim, the Old Bastard.

On the day this tale takes place, Jim walked across the street. One his way from one side of the high traffic road to the other, many cars swerving as he passed, he stooped down and picked up a penny. Not a shiny penny. A crappy old dusty penny, with that blue rust that appears all over the copper – you know, when pennies were made of real copper. Jim thought he was rich for a moment, then realized that the penny reminded him how worthless his savings were.
After eighty-seven years, Jim had been married for fifteen times. Some of them never found out, and some of them still don’t know.

Now that Jim was on the other side of the street, he stopped as soon as he heard that annoying as shit blerp-blop-bleep crap that cops make with their cars. That shit that scares everyone around thinking, “Fuck, did I do something wrong,” or, “Something crazy’s about to go down.” Just another passing thought.

And Jim’s passing thought this time was, “Fuck you cop, I don’t have time for your stupid shit.” So Jim turned around from some young punk rookie who thinks life is all about busting people – for anything, and being a total prick about it, too.

“Sir,” called out this dumb fuck kid in a badge. “Sir, may I speak to you please?”

“No, you may not, ya little shit,” thought Jim. He ignored the little pissant who probably smeared his nose up the chief’s ass all day. Instead, Jim attempted to open a glass door to a nearby cafe, but it opened itself. “God damned things. I have arms, ya know. This is why punks like that cop are so weak.”

Jim, still not giving a shit about the young man playing dress-up, sat in a booth and grabbed a newspaper off someone else’s table, while they weren’t looking.

“What can I get ya?” asked a beautiful voice.

Jim lowered the left edge of the newspaper, which he couldn’t read anyway because he left his reading glasses at home. He saw before him a gum-smacking, ditzy brunette with her hair all tied up in a bun. Black eyes, some parts of her skin tanned, some parts pale where she clearly didn’t know how to sunbathe nude (coincidentally what Jim was thinking of when he saw her).

“Hey, toots, get me a cup of black coffee, with cream, hold the sugar, and give me your number.”

“Okay, one, wait what?”

Before Jim could schmooze another young gal into giving him a sponge bath, the crackling, monotonous voice over a radio chirped him. “Oh, fuck, this little punk. Doesn’t he have anything important to do,” Jim muttered.

The multicolored waitress turned away to get Jim’s coffee, or maybe not; who cares; either way, it was just as that young jerk cop came up to Jim’s booth.

“Sir, may I speak to you outside?”

“No. You may not,” was Jim’s reply.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to come outside with me.”

“First you ask my permission, then you turn and tell me that you’re going to ask me again? God, fucking parents these days. Can’t teach a child how to speak anymore.”

“Sir, step outside with me.”

Jim lowered the corner of his newspaper again and look up at the dumb cop. “Oh, fuck, one of these idiots,” he thought. Jim folded his newspaper and turned toward the lawchild. “Don’t you know you look like a dumbass with your sunglasses on inside? For fuck’s sake, kid, didn’t your mother ever teach you to take your hat off, too?”

“All right, sir, you’re coming with me,” was all the cop had to say to get Jim’s nerves in a knot. This young punk cop grabbed the innocent old man’s arm, pulled him from the table.

“Let me go you son of a whore!” Jim shouted. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Calm, down, sir,” said the idiot man-handling a defenseless old man.

The officer dragged Jim out of the cafe, by the arm, through that damn automatic door. He embarrassed the shit out of Jim, but frankly, in Jim’s opinion, he embarrassed the shit out of his father.

“I bet your dad was fuckin’ pussy whipped, wasn’t he?”

“Sir, you need to calm down,” repeated the young asshole. He brandished from his belt a stun gun.

“Oh, you’re really shocking now, ya fucking pansy. Why can’t you fight me with your fists, huh!?”

Jim rolled his fists in circles back and forth, taunting the young cop. But the young cop was too much of a machine controlled bastard child who couldn’t think with reality. He pointed his stun gun right at Jim’s chest; the sharp prongs shot into the old man’s pectorals, drove into his chest, killing the old man instantly.

Poor old Jim. He would womanize, then talk about children as if they were demons. A bunch of young whippersnappers. And here, on this day, perhaps it was Father’s day, maybe it was Mother’s day, or maybe, just maybe, it was Mother Teresa’s beatification day. We don’t know for sure, but we know one thing:

Some assholes are put on this earth to kill innocent old men for jay walking.

New Definitions

I’d like to provide new definitions and word pairs for you today.

Zebra Vest – Something you should never wear.

Obsolete Library – A stack of Newsweek magazines.

Evasive Chair – A chair that has been pulled out from under you when you go to sit down.

Curved Pickle – A cucumber with erectile dysfunction.

Abortive Secretary – When an administrative assistant quits her job.

Rifle Toe – What one does to themselves to avoid the military draft.

Thoughtless Fact – Anything you hear on the ten o’clock news.

Flippant Reward – When someone offers a reward for a lost item, but then doesn’t give it to you. Bonus definition: When your paycheck is the victim of budget cuts.

Invincible Dust – When you dust off that damn end table, for the third time this week.

Perpetual Shade – A deep, dark, dreaded and dreary cave.

Jobless Yarn – A farmless sheep.

Naive Crowd – Any group of people gathered in a shopping mall.

Goodbye Ticket – A pink slip.

Pointless Texture – Freckles!

Calendar Representative – Any major holiday mascot.

Light Writer – Everyone who uses Twitter.

Old-fashioned Twig – A twig grown naturally, as opposed to one synthetically manufactured in China.

Competition Laugh – When two or more people try to be the last person laughing.

Fan Fact – Anything fans believe about celebrity gossip.