FB6 88K (NJ) - This douche cut me off, then slowed down to a stop... then turned on his hazards so he could take a phone call!

DISCLAIMER: Yeah.  Three weeks and nothing new.  Bite me.

Just not too hard.  My blood is acidic and you might die.

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So a while back, there was some sort of study on driving patterns in the US, and my home state of New Jersey garnered the country’s “worst drivers” based off the amount of accidents per square mile of road there is and somehow rated against our population or something like that.

Let’s not forget that 30% of “our” drivers are foreigners and another 30% are New Yorkers or Pennsyltuckians who think that our state is great for vacation, but fail to understand the concept of the jughandle turn at stop lights.

I digress, though…  Because recently someone did something that made me remember a blog I did way long before blogging about random shit was popular.  My friend put up a picture of some dude who had been banned from a store, because he shoplifted.  It was funny, not for the picture itself (which looked just like the pictures they took in the movie “Empire Records” of the kid “Warren Beatty” after he stole “rap, metal, rap, metal, rap, metal… Whitney Houston!?” from the store), but for the lines under it talking about what happens when you shoplift from the store…  You will not only get prosecuted to the full extent of the law, but you will have a bad picture taken of you, and placed in the store and on the internet with the word Banned and the date of when you stole from the store, so the regulars can recognize you and ridicule you for your stupidity.

Honestly?  That’s awesome.  You’ve been wronged by someone, snap a picture, so everyone you know can ridicule them.

But then I remembered back in 1999 when I graduated from high school and had finally gotten a decent computer, I went on the internet and started a website for people to post the license plate numbers of people who sucked at driving.  The License plate and the state.  No actual names, but a way to mark down who is a fucking idiot on the road.  Obviously it wasn’t thought out, and I actually got a note calling for a cease and desist, due to my illegal usage of the internet to post “personal information” (which makes no sense, since outside of a plate number which is in plain sight of everyone, I didn’t have any other information…)

There was one thing that I do remember, though, that really was funny.  One plate number had four sightings.  No other number had more than one, though.  I was the first person to put the number on the board, so seeing numerous people, who I didn’t know, slapping up a second, third, and fourth sighting was extremely humorous.

The best part of it?

The plate was Pennsylvanian.

I know… I didn’t have a lot to say today.  Sorry… it was just something that popped into my head in the last couple of moments when I realized I hadn’t updated this thing in a while.  But I know a few Pennsylvania people read this blog, and they can hang their head in shame as their fellow P’Tuckian is actually the worst driver on that list of 322 license plates.

I’ll be back sometime to go on a rant…  I just need to feud the fires of hate a bit, and stop attempting to be happy.

My sadness amuses the masses, after all.

Cunts.

AARP needs to lower their entry age...

DISCLAIMER:  I have strong opinions.  And they are probably WRONG opinions, in many cases.  I don’t claim to be one hundred percent right in my views, and under review, I, sometimes, change my mind.  This does NOT mean I want you screaming at me to change my mind, as the stubborn rule will ensue, and then you’ve locked me into hating your point of view.  It’s bad enough that I hate you to begin with… do you really want me hating your beliefs, too?  I’m not asking you to agree with me.  As I said before…  fuck your shoes.  You walked in here.


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I am old. 


I am not “getting” old.  I am not trying to “stretch my youth” anymore.  I’m just old.  I’m lumpy.  I’m realizing I’m slowly becoming “not cool” to kids anymore.  I might as well be a dad.
I’ve come to learn this because I live outside of the glowing centerpiece of media popularity.  Some styles last forever.  And the ones that don’t suddenly show up on the classic rock station, like Green Day.


My clothing style, no matter how hard I try, just looks funny when the wearer has a receding hairline, grey in his beard and hair, and listens to late nineties pop punk.  The only problem I have with getting old is that I grew up in a generation that never grew up.  Even the kids nowadays have managed to jump my gap and are more mature in their decisions, while my generation is floating around on crummy jobs, addiction to video games, and tastes in music that never matured into another but snobbery.


I guess this could attach itself to any generation, and maybe I’m noticing it more in my own, because I am a part of it…  but I’m starting to understand when my dad said that I looked like an idiot with the baggy pants… because now that I see these emo kids and their odd hairstyles and guys wearing girls’ jeans, I start to say to myself “That kid looks like an idiot.”


I used to think that kids thought I was cool when I worked in the video game store back in the day.  And maybe for a small spot in their lives, I WAS cool.  Maybe the smaller ones were like “I want to work at a game store!”  I know when I was a kid, I was jealous, because they were around everything I wanted… but they looked bored.


But now that I look at myself four years ago, I realize that a 26 year old KID worked there.  And now I’m a 30 year old MAN.  I’m hearing my favorite songs only during the “best of the 90’s!”  And my favorite bands are showing up on the easy listening stations.  Why is “Lightning Crashes” by Live on 106.7 and why does my dad like it!?


Coldplay was on the Christian radio station a few months back.


I think that was what started it all.  “Viva La Vida” popped on, and I listened to it, and then Johnny Stone’s voice suddenly came on…  “Looking Up to Number One.”  And there it was, Star 99.1’s Christian message, coming through a secular song that was just there because it was inspirational somehow…


Or maybe because it mentioned St. Peter.


In any case, I never changed the station after that, and I walked out to the yard and waved my cane at the kids playing in the street and yelled something about “You’ll get hit by a car!”


It was all a daydream, as I’m not 80 years old.  And I don’t live in a house with a picket fence and a yard.  But damn I feel old.

Damn the Video Game Industry!

DISCLAIMER: I am certainly not the only asshole in the world... which only goes to say I am not the only asshole spewing shit allover the place.  But at least my shit is controlled shit, only messing up the shoes of people wanting to step in it.  So fuck you and your shoes.  You walked in here.

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This is the first time I'm actually going to connect my disclaimer to what I'm talking about today.  It is true.  I do spew a lot of crap, though mostly in the form of offensive stories and such, but sometimes I actually look at the world and wonder if the crap I spew is museum worthy art in comparison to some.

Let's take into account Exhibit A.  (It is my only exhibit, so I don't know why I said it like that...)

http://www.ca9.uscourts.gov/datastore/opinions/2010/09/10/09-35969.pdf

((NOTE: TO READ THE ABOVE YOU NEED ADOBE READER.  IT IS A FREE DOWNLOAD.))

Now, I'm not going to bore you, unless you really want to read through all twenty-five pages of lunacy they've passed through law, but here is the skinny.  Some dude bought a disc containing a program, after a while, he realized he didn't use it ever and re-sold the program on eBay.  The company who made the program saw his re-sale and they sued him and lost.

Basically, their argument was that he was only given a license to USE the program.  His resale of said program denied them their rights as owners of the original progam to make a profit on their program.  They state that unlike second-hand clothing and such, the only thing he actually owned was the disc it was printed on, not the program inside.  They owned patents and copyrights on every part of the program, and therefore it is illegal for him to profit off of it.

They lost the suit, so they didn't get money for the ordeal... but it put into motion an appeal on copyright and patent law that states that it IS, in fact, illegal to re-sell any media products.  The appeal was posted in June, and AGREED UPON on September 10th.  Meaning from now on, you can't re-sell any of your video games, movies or music that you bought.  You don't like it?  Fuck you.  You bought it.

So, from here on out there will be problems occurring.  It takes the United States about two years to cause a new law to be enforced.  So Gamestop and eBay have about a year and a half of free time to do what they want, but they'll probably start cracking down earlier than that.  This does mean that both eBay and Gamestop (and other second hand media outlets) will lose a LOT of their business.  For Gamestop this means a loss of 43% of its profits.

(NOTE: I understand that it sucks...  but think like this:  Halo: Reach just came out and is selling at $59.  Someone sells it back because it's the same shitty ass game every other Halo is, just shinier, and gets back $35.  Gamestop sells the brand new product for $55 because it's used.  Someone comes into the store and contemplates the game, then sees the one for five bucks off.  Bungie loses ALL THE PROFITS OF A BRAND NEW GAME, and Gamestop just made $20 in pure profit.  Bungie has every right to claim foul over this.)

(CONTINUED NOTE:  The best part is that a group of lawyers thought about making a "Profit Sharing" program where Gamestop would send companies 25% of the profits them make off of their games, to serve as a licensing fee...  Gamestop said "NO!  FUCK YOU, GAME COMPANIES!  WE SELL YOUR SHIT AND YOU GIVE US NOTHING TO DO SO!  WE WILL RE-SELL YOUR SHIT AND MAKE OUR PROFITS THAT WAY!"  Again, sound logic...  until now.)

(CONTINUED NOTE:  After that debacle, game companies started adding in a way to gain five bucks back from used sales by LOCKING online capability unless you have an internet code for it.  This was a great idea, but apparently they were just buying time until this bill passed.)

WHAT THIS MEANS FOR THE REST OF US!

Not only does this work on video games, but you cannot re-sell movies or music anymore, either.  If you bought the CD, only liked one song on it, and decided you want to put it on eBay?  NOPE.  If you bought a movie you saw a few years back, but didn't really remember that it sucked and nostalgia was just playing games with you, and decided you want to sell it to Amazon.com?  NO WAY, JOSE!

I am a fan of the video game industry under normal circumstances.  I am one of those weirdos that agree with them that the games are an interactive art form.  But damn you, Game Industry.  You guys are assholes.  Now I can't re-sell my N*Sync collection!  Wait... did I say that out loud?

Dunkino Donutos and the non-existant KKK hood.

DISCLAIMER: I killed Batman. And Robin. And that chick Robin that was around for a little while. And I think I accidentally turned Nightwing into a quadriplegic. I’m that much of a badass. No monologuing because I didn’t give a shit if he knew why I wanted to blow up Gotham or not. As I said: Bad. Ass. Fuck you, DC comics.


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Y’know, since I have switched over to Blogspot from Tumblr, I have noted one thing. I can’t post from work anywhere near as easily. Apparently, Blogspot is considered a “Social Networking” site, and Tumblr just lies low under the radar. Either case, the stuff I do for you guys had better outweigh the minor annoyances and such. Otherwise, I’m just gonna have to kill the people who don’t like the niceties, and then go back to my Tumblr log.

Let’s go back a few weeks. Before an old man called me a spic. Way after an old lady totally went Fried Green Tomatoes on some innocent mommy’s brown minivan.

In the morning, I wake up in a stupor. Doesn’t matter how early I get up, I manage to leave at the last possible second every day of the week. Every morning is the same habit. Wake up. Go to bathroom. Take poo. Brush teeth. Fall asleep in shower. Phone alarm goes off to wake me up. Get dressed. Go to work. Completely forget breakfast.

Except this one day.

For some reason, after the “Brush teeth” spot in my summary, I didn’t fall asleep in the shower. The whole day took a wild turn, because suddenly I was ready to go about a half hour before I usually am… and a crazy idea popped into my head. “Let’s go to Dunkin’ Donuts, Jae! Get some snacky smores!”

Now, despite the actual advertisement of Snacky Smores (in the movie South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut) stating that it is the wonderful taste of smores in a delightful cookie crunch (which fucking sounds amazing… where is this product in real life!?), I am actually defining Snacky Smores as “foodstuffs” and that is what you are to understand it as until Snacky Smores actually comes out in real life.

My brain came up with the idea, and my tummy was like “GRRRRROWL! I agrrrrrree brrrrrrain.” So off I went. Left turn. Left turn. Left turn. Left turn. Quick right. Dunkino Donutos. I jump out of the car and walk inside. The place was packed. I had made a bad decision. It was bound to get worse, but I was already here and I wanted me a bagel twist.

M. Night Shyalaman would approve. “What a twist!”

I stood in line for food. I ordered a mocha coolatta, a sausage egg and cheese on a croissant, and a cheddar bagel twist. I could almost taste the awesomeness of my first breakfast in months… So I stood at the pickup counter in anticipation.

But let’s see if you can guess who was behind me in line ordering two donuts and a larger than life coffee in one of those trough-sized buckets?

(cue elevator-esque game showy music…)

(cue me looking at my watch)

(cue me walking away and playing WWE Smackdown vs. Raw 2010)

(cue me realizing I never finished my story and running back two days later)

If you said “An old person” you would have been right. If you would have said “old racist motherfucker” you would have been more right. Now, why is it that we have to just accept racist old people? Like they’ve been racist for so long we just have to sit there and say we can’t change them or get upset because they’re old?

This one deserved an ass kicking.

My order showed up at the window, and I grabbed the brown paper baggie of the gods and was on my way… but not seconds after I turned, I felt a very, VERY, weak punch to my left shoulder. The little old man was turning purple.

“THIS MEXICAN STOLE MY DONUTS!!!”

No offense, but at my height and skin tone, I look like at least 1/3 of the world. Indian. Arab. Any number of Hispanic races. But if anyone knows, I’m actually AMERICAN. I was born in the good ol’ USA. I can’t even speak Spanish. I’m probably more American than some of these old fuckers pretend to be.

But you see, you have to really understand the full surroundings of the situation to really digest what just happened. The woman behind the counter is Mexican. The manager that he called over to yell at is Mexican. The guy at drive through? Mexican. The lady in line behind the old man? Mexican. The guy that was in front of me in line, just entering his green pickup filled with gardening equipment? Mexican. Me? American. Go fucking fig!

He mushfisted me in the shoulder and called me Mexican in a room full of Mexicans.

Suddenly there was Spanish mumblings going on through the store as the old man continued his tirade. “Mexicans are stealing everything! Jobs. Just running into our land. And now they’re stealing my donuts!”

The manager asked me to open my bag, just to make sure I wasn’t accidentally taking his donuts. I complied. What else would I do? I showed my bagel twist, and my sammich, and then watched as the lady who had actually gone to get his donuts returned with his bag. He took his bag and coffee and muttered to himself and walked off.

No apology. Nothing.

I’ve often wondered what could go through someone’s head to just outright explode on people in public. Especially when you’re guaranteed to be on the losing side? Even worse, to hit someone without warning? Did that tiny old man really think he could take me on?

So this is what went off in my head. First, send a shot to his little old man face, and then throw him over the counter. As he tried to get up, Superfly splash him with the full brunt of my 280 lb. frame. Lay in with a right backfist followed by a nice forearm to the bridge of the nose. Drag him to the back where the donut fryer is, and drop his arm into the bubbling oil. As he yanks it out screaming in pain, slap him in the face with a baking tray while all the Mexicans look on in horror.

And then yell “I’m Puerto Rican, asshole!” as the police storm into the building and I turn myself over.

Instead, the little old man left… and I have a story to tell.

I have too many stories to tell.

I'm King Herod, Inc. But the Inc., doesn't mean I'm corporate.

WARNING!!! --- THIS POST DOES DETAIL SOMETHING IN MY HISTORY.  IT IS OFFENSIVE.  THIS IS PRE-FUNNY DISCLAIMER FOR A REASON.  READ WITH CAUTION.

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DISCLAIMER: As per usual, I'm not here to be sensitive to anyone's needs or wants.  So when you NEED a doctor, or you WANT a friend... find the real version of RRINC, and talk to him.  This internetty one?  Doesn't give a poo.

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I'm amused by people's attempts to make themselves out to be "cooler than you" by their words.  I think it comes from a need to feel important.  And then in their own downstroke, think that by saying they don't want to be important makes them more important.  Which I find even more amusing.  So guess what?  I call it like it is.  I AM important.  Someone ignoring me?  They'll die the horrid death they deserve, just because they think they're cool for not listening to all the rage.

Folks, remember... there is no such thing as cool. Getting a shitty haircut from your friend because it's "cool" to look like crap?  No.  Trying out that new myspace angle in every picture you take, because you think looking depressed and off center is "cool?"  No.  Heck, downplaying everyone for "trying" to be "cool?"  That isn't cool either.  All it is is a desperate drive for attention that we aren't going to receive.

Now that I'm done preaching, I'll get on with the show.

In my last post, I made a comment in my disclaimer (which, if you hadn't noticed, is now a mainstay in my posts) that probably came off horrendous, and I said I would tell that story... 

February 14th, 2010.  It was the dumbest holiday of the year.  Apparently gift card companies and chocolate companies didn't have enough stupid holidays to satiate their hunger for money, and they decided that they'd come up with a day to associate with "love" and that if you don't buy someone something on this specific day, you don't love them.  This day, to me, is known as blackheart's day.  MY day.  Because unlike everyone else that I know, I've spent only three Valentine's days with a significant other, and none of them had me receive anything but an argument.  The worst of it is that the following day is my birthday.  And because of the argument of selfishness the day before, each of those birthdays was ruined as well.

I have amazing luck.  Take me to Atlantic City.

Now, I'm not sure if you can understand what dark humor is, but I'm full of it.  I laugh at fake misery so much that I deemed it necessary to cause a small amount of it on this day.  Usually, it just takes the form of making fun of couples, but this year... oh man.  This year, I made a doozie.

Now... there is this website called Facebook.  Apparently people you don't ever talk to or see call you a "friend" and then they're suddenly privy to your private life... that for some dumbass reason, you're spewing all over the internet in small chunks known as status updates.  A status update lets your "friends" know what you're doing at that immediate moment, or what you're thinking... or whatever else you want to write there.  I figured I would choose this time to spew some Blackheart's Day propaganda!

"I wish that every child conceived on this day is still born!"

Now that I think of it, it was a stupid thing to say.  But before you explode on me like they did, understand that there is no possible way I would truly mean that I wish someone's unborn child to die.  But the words were said, and by gosh, the tidal wave of hate mail started rushing in.  It was glorious...  for a short while...

Then suddenly I started receiving phone calls, and threatening text messages, and it got way out of hand.

Ahem.  It wasn't as glorious anymore.  Not because I feared my safety, because I didn't, but because I realized that it was the first time I ever felt like I went too far with a joke.  You see, a fact that wasn't to my knowledge, a "friend" of mine, sadly, went through this very situation that I was turning into a poor taste joke, and he flipped the fuck out.

That day was the start of something new, though.  I may have felt the sting of knowing I pushed the wrong button, but at the same time, I figured I'd just start pushing every wrong button, because I can't censor myself and call myself free.  I dropped my frustration with racial slurs.  I dropped my frustration on people making fun of my weight.  Do unto others and I would want them to do to me, right?

Free reign for this one, I guess.

In any case, I just want to know who you think is evil enough to wish the deaths of unborn children?  I swear, that might be worse than King Herod slaughtering two year olds.  Really, people...

Really.

The Mis-Adventure of Lazorbowie and Lazordawg!

DISCLAIMER:  I am a motherfuckin’ supervillain.  Don’t mess.  And I club baby seals, eat dolphin meat, and wish death on small children and unborn fetuses (that story will one day show up here, so the warning is in place), too.  I’m awesome.

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The year was 1984.  I believe there was a book about that year.  That book was a bunch of lies.  Lies, I tell you.  I know.  Because 1984 was the year I turned 4.  I was alive during this fateful year, and little did I know, my sister wanted deadly revenge on me for peeing on the floor a year or two earlier.  Even at two years old, I was an evil bastard in the making.  It was sweet.

But before we get into the story at hand, let’s give a run down on the antics of my sister, and how she is the reason for my evil ways.  She is the type of sister that “accidentally” drops their baby bro off of a table.  The type of sister that would watch horror TV shows, waking up their little bro and then letting him have nightmares from the show all night.  The type of sister that I swear turned the volume on my clock all the way up so that when I accidentally set the alarm off, it scared the shit out of me.  I can’t prove that last one, but alas she was an evil bitch.

And I love her with all my heart.  You touch her, you die.

This story, though, isn’t totally about her.  It’s about the combination of two fairly irresponsible actions leading to the dawn of my “motherfuckin’ super powers!”  It was the day I would gain the abilities I would pass on to my dog to terrorize my family with.  It was the day that I became…

LAZORBOWIE!  (It’s pronounced laser boy.  Bite me.)

Now, when I say super powers, I don’t mean I shoot lasers out of my finger tips, or I can fly, or turn invisible, or even light boogers on fire as I pick them…  I have stupid powers that are actually just a waste of my life, but have each been proven to exist.

1.  I have the power of superior sense of smell.  I can smell food and dog shit from miles away, and actually can tell the scent of some of my friends if I don’t see them come in.

2.  I have the ability to exude extreme amounts of body heat.  This makes any small car I am in look like the inhabitants just had one serious makeout session, and may have to clean the upholstery.  I can also use this power to defrost my windshield during winter.

3.  I have the ability to move one eye at a time.  I’m sure this power came a lot later on (due to a botched eye surgery in 1989, that I should probably line up a malpractice law suit for), but for the purposes of a list longer than two items, this is now part of this story.

To give reference to the irresponsibility of the people at hand, note that I actually have TWO sisters… one of which had a dog.  And that dog was evil as well.  Oddly enough, the dog still hung around for a bit until the dog destroyed a mattress…  apparently mattresses were more important than the four year old boy that lived in the apartment, but who gives a crap, he’ll have super powers when he gets older!

This dog, which I’ll name “Red” despite it’s name probably actually being… um… Red… was a destructive beast, and one of the things it destroyed was my oldest sister’s stereo (or hair dryer… something that had a long cord) and that piece of junk was now in the trash.

The AWESOME thing is that four year olds love to look into trash cans for new toys.  Believe me, get a four year old boy a toy with a big box?  He’ll play with the box.  This little four year old sifted through the trash and found the severed cord, and while his younger-older sister was watching TV, he was plugging and unplugging the severed and frayed cord watching the sparks shoot out the back end.

Now… I’m not sure if I should complain that the breaker system in the apartment building was obviously not up to code, but I’m pretty sure that an uncontrolled electrical current such as a severed cable should short out the system.  In any case, with four year old curiosity fully in check, I wanted to know what the sparks felt like.
Sparks are an amazing thing, after all.  They contain no mass, haven’t been explained as explosions or whatnot, and are apparently raw, plasmatic energy that is unidentifiable other than as electricity.  And I had my hand grazing the end of the wire.

What happened next was awesome.  I travelled ahead in time about fifteen minutes!  My sister said I got knocked out.  I swear it was fucking time travel.  Then again, I was four.  I probably just thought the sparks teleported me, but in little kid terms, like I moved really fast or something.

Now, one sister leaves broken cables out.  The other doesn’t even notice that I’m casually watching sparks shoot out of said broken cable.

And the younger-older sister still claims I’m dumb.

I was four.

And now I have super powers.  And my dog has been given laser eyes so he can be my arch nemesis in ten years. 

"I hurt you with mein eyes!" Who knew dogs bark with German accents?!

That’s how it works right?  Negligences breeds evil jerk.  Evil jerk accidentally makes hero?  Bring it on, Lazordawg.  Bring it on.

Fried Green Tomatoes... and 65 lbs. of Unidentifiable Pork Cuts!

DISCLAIMER: I don’t like your grandma. She may make the best cookies, always have candy for me, and always be ready with lasagna and pie whenever we hang around… and I’ll act civil around her for your sake… but if I catch her in the street, motherfucker… if I catch her in the street! Where was I? Oh yeah…

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2007.  I had just started at the place that now employs me, and one of the jobs I originally had to do was pick up meat products from the supermarket.  This job has changed a little since then, so I don’t have to do it as much, unless there is an emergency project needing to be done.  And it has led to a few odd occurances. 

This is one of them.

I pulled into the parking lot of the nearby Stop & Shop, with my lunch in tow.  I figured it would be decent to listen to a video game magazine podcast, and eat a sandwich, before going in to buy 65 lbs. of unidentifiable pork cuts.  (I’m not even really sure what my company does with these meat tests, because I never actually see the product when it’s “done” and I’m not exactly sure I want to…)

I clicked on my half-broken iPod (at the time), flipped to my podcasts, and heard the weird digital intro when I noticed the parking spot across my way and two to the left was suddenly filled in by a brown minivan that contained a lady in what seemed like her mid-thirties.  I noted, as she got out of the car, that she must have recently had a flat tire, because she did a kick test on her wheels before pulling out her phone to call someone.  While she was kicking the tires something odd happened.

From behind me, I heard a screech of wheels as an old Lincoln Towncar peeled out from behind me, and flew around the far corner of the lot.  The owner of the minivan pulled out her phone as the Towncar stopped and rolled down her window.  The scene that happened next made me wonder if this little old lady was a Kathy Bates fan, or if she just liked watching good movies that guys don’t like admitting were good.  But as the window rolled down, I could see it, curly purplish-grey hair and thick rimmed huge glasses.

I didn’t have my windows rolled down, but I lowered the volume on my radio to hear what the woman was saying.  She must have married a sailor, because she cussed like one…  something like “Fuckin’ bitch! Stole my spot!”  The woman from the minivan stared blankly, and then hung up her phone.  Apparently, she must have argued that the spot was wide open, because the old lady in the Towncar started cussing her off again.  Suddenly the old lady hammered her gas pedal and rear ended the minivan.

I picked up my phone, and dialed 911.  Apparently the driver of the minivan had the same idea, as she picked up her phone as well.  The old lady then backed up and drove about six spaces down the lot and parked…  closer to the store.

Can someone explain to me what the hell goes through old people’s heads when they do things?  Is there some sort of unwritten rule that we are supposed to respect our elders, but not have them respect us?  That they have the right to turn left at a red light?  They have the right to cuss us out without repercussion?

Like I said before, America: I hate your grandma.

Tetas. That is all.

DISCLAIMER: I hate a lot of people.  People hate a lot of me.  Get used to it.

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2009.  Breast Cancer Awareness was all over the place.  Every month had a day.  And then there was also an entire month for it, too.  And don’t forget the pink helmets on Mother’s Day in the MLB.  This brings me back to my favorite place to donate to charity.

My local Wawa.

Last time I talked to you all, I blabbed about a Veteran who called me a racial slur, just to get some lady to cough up a few extra coins to round out the dollar for the fake poppy flower that she probably wadded into a ball of plastic and is now at the bottom of her purse, hanging out with a gum wrapper and a discarded “discreet” tampon that’s wrapper broke…

Good times.

Well, this one time at band camp, there was your classic scene.  Two ladies with a huge table of trinkets no one wants, with a pamphlet for everyone who donated a dollar.

Now, before I go further and leave you going “this guy is weird” let me note that when I believe in something, I don’t just hand over my pocket change.  I give a five dollar bill.  There is a reason for this.  Pocket change means you don’t care, you just don’t want the stigma of giving nothing.  A dollar means you didn’t have any change.  Five dollars, though, means you went out of your way to find a significant amount of your daily usage and gave it away.  Five dollars can get you a meal.  It can get you enough gas to get home from a half hour away.  It can get you five games of Guitar Hero at the arcade.  It can ALMOST get you four large slurpees.
Five dollars is not a joke donation.  Sure, it’s not a whole paycheck, but it’s something that lets them know you aren’t just thinking of their cause as an afterthought.

So I sift through my wallet before going inside, and pull out a fiver… but instead of putting it in the jar, I put it in my pocket… then go inside.  I bought something… probably a soda or a sandwich… but probably a sandwich AND a soda AND some chips… because I’m a fat bastard who obviously doesn’t give a shit about his health… or because I’m just hungry at lunch time.  You figure it out.

On my way out, I go into my pocket and pull the five out and walk over to the table where the ladies are standing.  I put the bill into the jar, and when the lady replies with “Thank you, that was very generous!” I quickly respond as rudely as I possibly can.

“I like boobs.  I don’t like boobs getting chopped off.”

The stuttering was phenomenal.  I’m pretty sure she was offended, but at the same time could not fault my honesty.  The funny thing is that this sounds like I was bad ass, maybe tossed aside a half full can of soda afterward for effect.

No.  I just like boobs.  They are fun to play with when I’m allowed.  I don’t get allowed that often, so I want to keep as many boobs in play as possible.

There you go ladies.  This dork loves you for your mind!

Good night!

You can learn something from this (BLEEP) right here!

DISCLAIMER: People love to say asinine things.  I love to say asinine things, too.  Sometimes these asinine things are offensive.  And to me?  That’s funny.  If you get offended to the point where it isn’t funny anymore?  Go away.  It’s bound to get worse.

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Monday was Labor Day.  I hope yours was awesome.  Mine was pretty neato, despite it being calm.  Call me No-Drink Jaebo, if you want.  In either case, with Labor Day just passed, two things have happened in the New Jersey.

1. Schools just opened.

2. Veterans are hanging around every supermarket and convenience store with their little jars and fake poppies for you to… um… throw away after you get them.

The first fact I don’t give a crap about.  Kids going back to school is something I think they should have done all summer long.  ADULTS deserve three months off.  Not kids.  Kids deserve to be stuck in school year round for eleven years. then when they turn seventeen, either they go to college, or they get a job.  If they do neither, we hit them with a car.  (Don’t worry, I only hate kids when they aren’t mine and I’m in the mood to hate them for all the wonderful things they get that I don’t get anymore…  I have a feeling this idea will change when I finally have my own to… love… and coddle… and whatever.  But bitterness of non-youth aside…)

The second fact is what amuses me.  You see, under normal circumstances, I also hate old people (and we’re definitely bound to see my reasonings for that as we go along).  But these old people are the only exception.  I love veterans because they fought the good fight that allows me to bitch and moan on the internet without some government official scouring my every word and forcing me to be PC about everything.  These veterans are a blessing to society, and everything they have done makes me proud to be called an American, my brown skintone be damned.

As Americans we watch TV shows where little kids say the darnedest things, but I’m here to tell you, people of America, it’s these old fuckers that say the really awesome stuff.  So here we go:

Wawa, somewhere in New Jersey. September 8. 12:35pm.

This little old guy was sitting there basically just watching people drop their remaining change from their sandwich orders into his jar, and saying “bless you” and handing out these little cloth red flowers that really don’t look like flowers, but more like a black piece of plastic on a green stick with a red piece of fabric in an oblong oval cut out and jammed in between.  On the “stem” is a piece of paper that says something about the nearby Veteran’s Hall, and how it’s been around since the dawn of man or something.

My dad is a veteran.  He served in Vietnam, and he was one of the lucky ones to have never seen heavy combat.  But Vietnam was a “fake war” because we never actually declared it.  Hundreds of men died for this folly, and our government’s inability to stop thumping its chest.  But because of that, I respect the armed forces for the things they have had to do over these years, and the fights they’ve run into on behalf of the idiots in the white house, who tout that “we” have fought these wars, when they were hiding in their bunkers.  Assholes.

Anyway… back to the matter at hand.  Wawa.  Little old dude in uniform with fake poppies.  Here we go.
I come back out holding my chocolate “fReal” milkshake and my roast beef and cheddar half sub with lettuce, tomatoes, white onion, mayo and light vinegar.  You didn’t need to know that, but now I made you hungry.  And that’s cool.  I put my hand in my pocket and drop a five dollar bill into the jar.

“Five bucks? Most people just toss in pocket change, kid.” The old man suddenly blurts out.

“My dad is a veteran.” I reply.

“Really, now? What war?”

“Vietnam.”

“Shit. They sent a lot of boys to die in that shit stain.” He replied. “Five bucks gets a prayer for your old man, what’s his name?”

I said his name, and started on my way as a curly blonde lady in her late forties came out of the shop, dropping in a few clinking coins.

“YOU COULD REALLY LEARN SOMETHING FROM THIS SPICATOON RIGHT HERE!” The old man blurts out.  “HE’S JUST A KID AND HE DROPPED IN FIVE BUCKS!”

Now, before we go on, note that he just called me a spic. Oh, America.

The lady, turning an awesome shade of pink that I don’t think they made a crayon for yet (get on it, Crayola!), looks directly at me, and with an angry look on her face searches her purse for a dollar.  Like I somehow forced her to get a dollar out.

I can’t wait until she’s sixty-five and I can bundle her into my hatred for normal old people.  But I figured I would share this nugget of awesomeness with you, the people.

Give money to veterans. Assholes.

It's on like Donkey Kong

Football season is upon us, folks. Where baseball has taken the name of America’s favorite pastime, football has ran with the ball, pun intended, and holds the honor of its championship match being the most watched sporting event in the United States and Canada.

Tell me, does it really matter who is in the Super Bowl (am I allowed to say Super Bowl without being sued?) for people to watch it? I don’t think so… Whether it is two behemoths of the gridiron, or one measly underdog taking on an undefeated beast, or two teams that somehow fluked their way into the spotlight, everyone will watch.

But we have 22 weeks until then. 16 weeks of hoping and paying your team makes the playoffs, with a one week breather, and then, if you’re lucky, three weeks of playoff anxiety… And if you’re really, REALLY, lucky (like I was a few years back), the big game is all yours.

Well, good luck to you and your teams. Five months of awesomeness are ahead of us.
As for me, I’m going to be thinking about what to blog and how to blog it.  Be prepared for random changes and stuff.  Changing my starting lineup.  Maybe even losing a few games just because I need to learn.  All that you need to know is that when I find my niche, I will scratch it… and then punch you in the face with it.

It’ll be fun.

Go G-Men!