Hitchhikers

I have to say, I really like to see hitchhikers walking backwards down the street with their thumbs in the air. I like that image for two reasons: 1) I like seeing the ingenuity and resourcefulness displayed in the simple fact that they're using their time and energy wisely. These guys are working smarter, not harder. Can't get a ride right away? Well, make up the time by walking in the direction you wish to go. That way, you could go literally days without actually getting a ride and still put several dozen miles under your belt. It almost makes the pick-up a little bit of a bonus. You could be hitchhiking to Denver from Colorado Springs, and even if you don't get some poor liberal sucker to pick you up, you'll still eventually get there. Nice. 2) The other reason is that it makes me feel better about myself, knowing that I'm in a car, where it's warm and dry and I have food in my stomach. You know, I'd probably think a lot less of my life if there weren't hitchhiking bums out there to give my self-esteem a much-needed boost. Thanks, guys.

Out Of The Blue

I recently decided that I don't like harmonicas, and I REALLY don't like people who play them. It's not even something I can readily explain. It's just that... they're really really stupid. What kind of idea for an instrument is that? You don't have to have any sort of rhythm or musical ability to play it. Hell, you don't even have to have fingers to play it. Apparently, the inventor of the harmonica had an entire family made up of retards and stroke victims. "Here you go, Tommy. Here's an instrument you can play without ever having learned how to walk or feed yourself." Really, the only thing worse than the harmonica is the mouth harp, which doesn't even make what normal people might call "music." If "making a sound" is now the only criterion for calling something an instrument, then I think there are a lot of people out there who deserve to be very severely beaten.

Always Been This Way

A few years ago, my mom told me something my kindergarten teacher had told her about me in their parent-teacher conference. She said that my teacher had noticed I was... intolerant, to say the least, of some of the other children. I wasn't able to mask my disgust with those around me who couldn't keep up. I was doing this when I was five years old. Can you believe that? I didn't know a five-year-old had the capacity for meanness. Now that I look back on it, though, I probably shouldn't be so surprised. I mean, when I threatened to lynch that one kid, along with his entire "ignorant WOP family," I should have known something was up. When I burned that girl's hair because she didn't know the difference between "wear" and "where," I should have guessed that there was something wrong. I think the big sign that I was a little too insensitive came when I chopped off the left hand and foot of that really stupid kid who, in hindsight, I now realize was probably autistic. Fortunately, Christian schools don't hold back children who are "intolerant" or "insensitive" or "have been convicted of a hate crime." So now you know. I may not have always been the upstanding citizen you've grown to know and love, but at least I was made that way by a wonderful combination of loving parents, sincere faith, and brutal parole officers.

The Saddest Thing In The World

A few weeks ago, as I was on my way home from a rousing game of Jenga with some of my friends and/or Jennifer Aniston, when I passed a bunch of men in their mid-forties on crappy motorcycles, all congregating in front of a Shell station. It was, I kid you not, the funniest thing these old eyes have ever seen. It was a bunch of middle-aged men with old BMW motorcycles from the 1980's, trying to prove to one another that they weren't nearly as old and worthless as they most certainly appeared. They were probably the "rebels" back in the day, wearing heavy leather jackets in the hot, hot sun and defying convention by wearing their sunglasses at night. Oh, those crazy rebels! If that weren't bad enough, they all had their hog mamas riding on the back of their ugly motorcycles. It was a middle-age pity fest, my friends! I also got the distinct impression that this was the first time in decades some of them had been awake past 10:00 pm. I get a more convincing image of rebellion from a collection of middle-schoolers at a youth group meeting, pretending they're too cool to listen to "that lame youth pastor" and "only coming for the games." Puh-lease! Guys, I'm sure you're very good accountants, lawyers, insurance salesmen, and Taco Bell night managers, but you're just plain too old to still be grasping at the tenuous hold on youth you've had for about fifteen years now. Go home to your four kids, mortgage, crappy lawn mower, collection of "Yes" records, and twelve-year-old minivans. We don't serve your kind here.

The "Idiot Lonely Guy" Demographic

The people who run those adult "dating" (yeah, right) phone lines must think that the guys who would actually want to call them are complete morons. Of course, most of them probably are, but for different reasons. Those in charge of the phone lines apparently think that the type of guy who would call is completely unaware of just how hot those girls in the tv ads are. Who in their right mind thinks that these women, who could get pretty much any guy they want, would rather "stay in" and talk dirty to some fat schlub whose "girlfriend is out of town?" Uh-huh. The guys who actually call those numbers, you know, to "talk to local girls," must be dumber than a trash can full of mongoloids. Seriously, I bet I've worn and/or thrown up in things with more intelligence than those guys.

I've Made A Huge Mistake

A couple days ago, I went down to the store to pick up some paper towels and large quantities of gummi bears. When I came out, I got into the car, inserted the key, turned it, and... nothing. The engine didn't make a peep. Panicked, I turned the key again, and still got nothing. After trying four or five more times, I started mentally planning out a phone call to the nearest person I knew. I decided on my grandmother. She lives only about a mile away from the store. So, I called her up, explained the situation, and asked if she could drive down and give me a jump start. A few minutes later, she was there, and I pulled out the jumper cables I keep in the back of the Jeep for just such an emergency. I hooked the cables up just the way you're supposed to, thanks to a call to my dad I'd made a few minutes before. I wanted to be sure about that part, because if you do it wrong, you end up with an IQ comparable to that of Paris Hilton. Anyway, I tried to get the Jeep started several times while connected to my grandmother's Explorer. Nothin'. Then, she offered me a ride, so I acquiesced to defeat, and got a ride back home. Several hours later, my dad called me from the King Soopers parking lot, saying that he'd gotten the Jeep started. Grateful to know that I hadn't broken the dang thing, I asked him if he just started it normally, or if he'd given it a jump start. He said, "I just got in the car and started it normally. The only thing I noticed was that it was in 'drive' instead of 'park.'" That's right, ladies and gentlemen. I couldn't get my own car started because I'd left the thing in "drive" before I went into the store. Laugh it up.

Sneak Peeks

Who exactly do DVD manufacturers think they're fooling by calling the regular theatrical trailers on a DVD "sneak peeks?" Suddenly, they're not just previews or trailers anymore. Suddenly, we're being given a sneak peek into the future. It's a movie about which NO ONE ELSE KNOWS! Isn't that amazing? Those nice people at Paramount Home Video think so highly of my opinion on what new movies are going to come out, they actually rigged the one DVD they knew I'd rent so I could catch a few sneak peeks! What a privilege! What an honor! I'm so happy I think I just crapped my pants! Give me a break. There's no one sneaking into the studios late at night, sifting through the thousands of yards of film in the editing rooms, and splicing together a special trailer just for you and your friends to see in an exclusive new sneak peek. Besides, with all the pure crap that's coming out of the Hollywood system nowadays, I wouldn't want a sneak peek if they paid me. I mean, jeez. Look at some of the stuff we've had to suffer through:

"The Honeymooners"- They're black. That doesn't make any sense. That's like TBS making a new show called "The Real Gilligan's Island" and bringing on a black professor. Oh, wait. THEY DID.

"House of Wax"- While I will readily admit that wax is by far the scariest of the partially-natural, mostly-watertight, clear, semi-plasticine psuedo-solids, it's not nearly scary enough to warrant me getting up off the couch and watching some guy kill off the worst actors of our time in a single two-hour span.

"White Chicks"- It's like some 400-pound executive said, "What are the two things these least famous of the Wayans brothers aren't?" And the answer was this exceptionally revolting turd.

"Farhenheit 9/11"- Calling this smelly secretion "a real movie" is kind of like calling the Hanoi Hilton "a real hotel." It's an insult to both real hotels and real movies everywhere.

But I digress. What was I talking about? Oh, yeah. Sneak peeks. When will the studios finally realize that even small kids are miniature film critics? They can smell a publicity stunt a mile away. It's obvious that there's nothing "sneak" about these "peaks," and everybody knows it. Get off your high horses and come spend time with the common folk, you jackasses.

Happy Father's Day!

Right now, as I write this, we have less than an hour left of Father's Day in the Mountain time zone. I got so into the spirit of the day that I started wishing everyone I saw a happy Father's Day. Most of the women, and quite a few of the younger males who don't have children, didn't think it was funny. I thought it was great, but then again, I thought mittens were making a comeback. Seriously, I've found that AT THE MOST, I'm only right about 96% of the time. That's a staggering realization. When I made that discovery, I locked myself into a port-o-potty for five hours screaming "I Want to Break Free" by Queen at the top of my lungs. It wasn't pretty. Especially when the construction workers finally got the darn thing to tip over. Man, I had to wash my hair fourteen times after that. By the way, did you know that Centrum pills usually go completely undigested? Yeah. Shocker. Anyway, happy Father's Day to all you people out there who still think it's a legitimate holiday. Right now, I'm on the edge of my seat, waiting for Hallmark, in a desperate move fueled by greed and an overabundance of crappy unused Valentine's Day poems, to declare the first ever "Love Day" any time now.

"...A Complete Lack Of Human Decency"

During the less-than-24-hour period that John was here in the Springs before taking off again, we met at Village Inn to catch up on the last 29 day's worth of not communicating with each other. (On a side note, if anyone out there wishes to develop a more commanding presence and a newly refined charm, go to field training for a month. John, who was never a man I'd see at a loss for words, had a revitalized return to form after 29 days of repression and rough shower sex.) It was there that we met Katie, the worst hostess to don an apron and the inspiration for the quote that is the title of this post. Over the course of the evening, she walked over to our table about a half dozen times, constantly complaining that she was bored. Well, gee... that's really too bad. Could you please go away now? Apparently, Katie's parents had never bothered to teach her that most people frown on having a strange overweight seating hostess hanging around their table while they're trying to have a private conversation. Now, it's not exactly like we were planning a complicated armored truck heist or anything, but it was still unnerving to have this strange girl always standing about eighteen inches from my face, just listening to everything we were talking about. It wasn't just the overt dropping of the eaves that worried me, but her whole manner in general. She seemed just a little too glib for a person who stands at a booth and walks a maximum of thirty feet at a time for a living. Here's a hint, Katie: back waaay off. That's a start. Now, watch hours upon hours of tv and movies until you develop a viable personality and the ability to curb your unnaturally strong compulsion to listen in on other people's conversations. It's called "living in a society." Get used to it.

A Religion Made Up By A Science Fiction Writer

I got curious the other day, and did a little research on Tom Cruise's fake celebrity religion, Scientology. It's the single most staggeringly retarded "religion" I've ever heard of, and that's including Mormonism, Jediism, and that crazy beekeeping cult I started in the summer of '97. It was started in the 50's by a science fiction writer named L. Ron Hubbard. Basically, they believe that every one of us has a little alien living inside us, and we can become "clear" once we've learned how to "confront" the alien.

They start you off with basic mind-numbing excercises, the point of which is simply to lower your mental defenses against certain ludicrous suggestions. In some levels of the training, you are told to sit still for hours while being read passages from "Through the Looking Glass," by Lewis Carroll (I swear I'm not making this up), during which time you are not allowed to twitch, move your eyes, speak, or laugh. When you get high enough into the cycles of mind control (known as "auditing"), you are told the basic concept behind the cult: many years ago, some horribly evil alien gathered a bunch of other aliens together from all over the galaxy and stuck them all on Earth. Then, in a horrific plot reminiscent of pretty much every Sci-Fi B-movie from the 1950's, he killed all of them with a bunch of hydrogen bombs.

The absurdity of the previous few sentences just hit me anew. There isn't enough pot in the world to make that sound like a viable religious tenet. Do you hear me, Tom Cruise?! The dirt-worshipping heathens native to North America have religious beliefs that make ten times more sense than yours! One day, when either Jesus comes back in His glorious reappearing, or when all the Scientologists die, they're going to be standing in line at the gates of hell, wondering what this weird place is. There'll be a sign hanging over the worst section of hell, and it will read: "For the idiots who believed in aliens." I bet they'll be feeling pretty stupid right about then; even more so than the atheists, who are really just self-deluding agnostics, anyway.

Any respect I may have had for Tom Cruise prior to finding out what I now know about Scientology has just gone completely out the window. Guess what, jackass. You're stupider than those people who have to wear a bib and helmet to dinner. The day when Scientologists are sniffed out and burned at the stake (for the crime of being stupid beyond saving) cannot come soon enough.

They're Two Separate People!

I can't stand those gay-ass one-word names the stupid media give to celebrity couples. "Bennifer" was bad enough, but now we've got "Bradgelina," and I'm sure some public-school-educated scumbag is working up a new one for Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. You know, like "Tolmes" or "Totie" or "Houise" or "Karuise." Those stupid names make me so angry I just want to kill a baby. I refuse to suckle at the teat of American pop culture any longer. If we're so full of ourselves that we can't even spend the time to say two people's names separately, I hope napalm falls from the sky, completely vaporizing everyone and everything that currently resides in Hollywood. Why do you care so much about who Brad Pitt is dating? I'm asking you, because I'm quite certain it's not me who's feeding the media this tripe about people giving two craps about which celebrity's car ran out of gas on PCH. I anti-care. The minute I hear news about some crappy celebrity, I promptly take a pencil, sharpen it, and shove it in my ear. Why? Well, if I have to be in that much pain, I'm going to do it to myself. It's not that I have anything against celebrities, really. I mean, they've actually started supporting a new legal crackdown on ruthless papparazzi's behavior. They can't help it if Dan McSchmuckface of Crapwater, Arkansas really cares that Lindsay Lohan has dropped fourteen sizes in eleven days. So, the burden is on us, the public. If we stand together and tell the entertainment news industry that we'd rather eat our own left feet than hear another word about "Cruiolmes," then maybe we'll start getting attention on what we really care about: get-rich-quick real estate schemes and MLM vitamin companies. God bless America!

And don't even get me started on Scientology. More on that later...

ABF

Instead of learning how to "keep it real" in my church's college group, I like to attend my parents' Adult Bible Fellowship (ABF) class. It's Sunday School for grownups. Well, at least you'd THINK they're grownups by looking at them. If you were to observe their behavior, however, you'd think you're watching a documentary on Adult ADD. It's amazing to me that a group of highly educated men and women could have such a hard time passing a clipboard around the room. Apparently, it takes much more than advanced degree in engineering to figure out that, if you got the clipboard from the person behind you, it's supposed to be passed to the row in front of you. Actually, I really do like being in that class. It's far more interesting than learning about how to witness to my unchurched friends at school, of which I have absolutely none.

No, the real problem I have is with these adults who equate the ability to dissent from popular belief with spiritual depth. I know you know the type. I was sitting in front of a couple of them this week, which served as the impetus for this post. After nearly everything the teacher said, I had to hear the guy lean over to his wife and say, "I just disagree with that entirely." Thanks for letting us know, doofus. We don't care what you agree with, you pompous mouth-breather. If someone got up in front of the class and yelled, "Gravity is what causes things to fall!" and I yelled back, "I just don't think that's right!" I'd get the hairy eyeball from every single person in the room. You can't disagree with statements based on the tenets of our faith. Just because you've recently discovered this magic new talent you have for "disagreeing with things," you don't have to go bludgeoning us over the head with it. Guess what, queerbait. Your opinion is about as relevant as the Swiss army. Your wife probably doesn't even care what you think. Get a pair and learn to shut your ignorant mouth before someone like me breaks your jaw.

I also very nearly made a fool of myself when I met a new person in the class. She told me she's half Japanese, half German. Then, I met her husband, who is Italian. I came *this* close to saying, "Well, you're just the whole axis package, aren't you?" But fortunately, I was able to stop myself in time. For the most part, I'm able to control the ridiculous urges I have to say those types of things, but every once in a great while, one of 'em slips out. I'm just glad for the self control I had today, because I could have very easily made a new enemy. God knows I don't need any more of those.

We're Better Off Without Them

The people with the most worthless jobs in the country: those guys who talk down jumpers. I'm so sick of hearing about how it's such a terrible thing for white trash to commit suicide. I say, instead of trying to convince them that their pathetic life is worth continuation, we should shoot them right in the face. Twice, just in case. If you suck at life so bad you can't even commit suicide successfully, you deserve to have your head made into a canoe. Hey, who knows? Their life might be so crappy, we're really doing them a favor by sending them to hell on a shuttle. It can't be worse than living in a forty-year-old trailer with nine kids on a steady diet of velveeta and waffles. And I totally don't buy into that "cry for help" crap. If you really wanted help, you wouldn't pretend you're going to jump off a building. We shouldn't endanger the lives of the police who go out on the ledge to grab these crybabies. Just get a couple snipers, and make sure there's a clean-up crew waiting on the ground below. And also a nice big crowd. That way, people know that if they ever plan on committing suicide, it'll get done.

I Don't Want To Jinx It, But...

I might get my big break at the Scribe next year. I'm looking at the possibility of my very own column. The only trouble is, a lot of the stuff I've written so far (here, anyway) isn't exactly PC enough for public consumption. I'll have to watch my footing very carefully. Meantime, I'm putting up my first column. Here it is:

"Being a freshman in college can be rough, as many of you already know. You miss your own bed, you don’t know anyone on campus, you only know how to cook Hot Pockets and Pizza Hut, and you’re already tired of talking about the stupid major your parents made you choose. Everyone on campus has been there at one point. The one factor that dwarfs all the others by comparison, however, is one that some college students may never know: going to school out of state. While there aren’t as many out-of-staters at UCCS, they still deserve their recognition. In honor of them, I’ve compiled a list of interesting things about Colorado Springs that you may or may not (yes, those are the only two choices) find useful.

1. There are less than 600,000 people in the entire city. 450,000 of them are originally from California. I am one of them. We were forced to leave when a giant volcano rose up in the middle of downtown Los Angeles. If it weren’t for Tommy Lee Jones, we’d all be dead.

2. You may hear many references to Garden of the Gods. It’s not what you think. It’s just a bunch of huge rocks. Yes, that’s right. Apparently, the gods were idiots.

3. The elevation is over 6,000 feet. Alcohol is much more potent here because of that. Just FYI.

4. Famous people who are from, or have heard of, Colorado Springs: Michael Jordan, Tom Hanks, Sean Connery, Teddy Roosevelt, Brad Pitt, William Faulkner, Jesus.

5. Some of the greatest skiing in the world is just a short drive away, but then again, so is Pueblo.

6. I can’t verify it, but I have it on good authority that we invented snow.

7. People come to Colorado from all over the world, only to never set foot in Colorado Springs. Hey, we’re cool like that.

8. In this city, the words “stop” and “yield” are interchangeable.

9. We don’t have “freeways.” We have “The Interstate” (insert dramatic pause here), and if it gets backed up or shut down, you may as well kill yourself, ‘cause you’re not going anywhere.

10. If you can’t see a church from where you’re standing, just walk ten feet and look again.

11. If you order a Coke, you won’t be asked, “What kind?” You’ll get a Coca-Cola. If you order pop, your server will have no idea what you’re talking about. It’s soda.

The author admits to exaggerating on almost everything he ever says, and has never actually met Tommy Lee Jones. He does, however, swear that he once saw Eric Idle at his church."

What do you think?

Update: I just found out a few hours ago that I got the column. Woohoo!

A Breach Of Protocol

I was at the movies today, and I went to the bathroom right before showtime. You know, to ensure I wouldn't have to get up in the middle of the movie. Well, anyways, my brother and I actually walked in at the same time. We followed protocol, putting distance between ourselves by leaving a urinal empty in between us. Then this jackass walks in and shoots that all to hell. He made a beeline to the urinal between my brother and myself. Who does this guy think he is? Is he somehow immune from the rules? Not that it mattered, because the only excuses I would have accepted would have been that he was either blind or had Alzheimer's. Nothing else. I don't care if you've got a urinary tract infection the size of a filet-o'-fish; you're not peeing next to me. If I hadn't been otherwise occupied, I'd have bitten that sumbitch's nose off. I'm sure that sounds really gross, but so does urinating six inches from some other dude.

A Small Book

As of the last post, I've written over 50,000 words on this blog. That's enough for a short nonfiction book! Granted, about a quarter of this stuff can't be used, because it's so incredibly un-PC. For some reason, people get offended when they read things like, "I'd like to meet the guy who decided that Chef Tony's dialogue could pass for something other than comatose brain activity, so I could kick him in the teeth in front of his bound and gagged family." or "So, Down's Syndrome, eh? Exactly what is it about the twenty-third chromosome that keeps you from knowing that you've got chapped lips?" or "Helen Keller Was An Idiot" or "Jump Start: Apparently, I'm not supposed to claim this isn't a good cartoon. After all, it stars black people. I may get into trouble with the ACLU." I mean, come on, people. Can't take a joke? Yeah, I admit it, sometimes I come off as a complete jerk. But hey, so does Chad Michael Murray (for comepletely different and more "real" reasons), but tens of tens of people still love him and his vomit-inducing work. You know, every time I see CMM in a movie, it makes me wish looks could kill. Through a TV set. Across time and space. Yeah, that'd be cool. Oh, sorry. On a lighter note, I hate Chad Michael Murray.

Ah, To Be A Child

I was in Target the other day, and I watched as a little girl (no more than four years old) and her slightly older sister (five... maybe six) teased each other as they followed their dad down a main aisle. The younger one kept saying, "Push me. Now, push me harder." Of course, the older sister was happy to oblige, as any true older sibling is. At this, the younger one would promptly reply, "That didn't hurt!" and continue asking to be pushed. This cycle continued until the older sister, who was understandably annoyed by now, shoved her sister hard enough to snap her neck back and jerk her forward a good four feet. The dad, needless to say, was not amused. I couldn't stop laughing. The younger sister was just asking for this to happen, whether she knew it or not. I miss the days when you could get under someone's skin by saying "You can't come to my birthday party" or "You're not my friend anymore." Nowadays, I hear that, and I laugh at the nostalgia. Fifteen years ago, that was a serious, SERIOUS thing to say to somebody. Equivalent to the modern, "I'm going to kill your family and wear your dog's head as a hat." It's ok. I'm not a sicko. I've only used that three or four times. Promise.