Dude, You Are Not Cool

To the guy sitting at a red light, blasting music as I was crossing the street on my way to lunch: you're a tool.

You drive a dirty, rusty Volkswagen Rabbit with the grill smashed out. Instead of getting a new car, however, you put a custom exhaust and a new sound system in the pile of crap you have.

And to top it off, you blast music with your WINDOWS UP. This tells me that you're either too much of a pussy to put your windows down because it was a little bit cold out, or you're so stupid that you've listened to loud music so long that you're now deaf. And everyone knows deaf people aren't cool. (Name one off the top of your head. See? Can't do it.)

(And don't bring up Marlee Maitlin. Yes, she's still smoking hot at 44, but she's not cool. Sure, I'd lay the wood to her and say nasty, hatefucking-type things to her, because she can't hear them and won't get offended and leave before finishing the sex and fetching me a sandwich.)

You're also not gangsta, son. A Puerto Rican flag hanging from your rear view mirror doesn't tell me you have "cred." It tells me you're not smart enough to realize that having something dangle in your line of sight while driving is not a good idea. Given the thickness of your glasses, I'm guessing your line of sight isn't that good to begin with.

A black hoodie with a skull and thorns and that ghetto font doesn't say "gangsta" to me. It says that after Little Pooky got capped, his baby mama blew her welfare check on Kools and needed to sell his stuff to Goodwill to buy Doritos and baby formula -- then the next day, you saw it in the discount bin and thought it looked "totally rad."

Fucko, why are you leaning over the center console as you're driving? Are you fat to the point that the Earth's gravitational pull got sick of pulling you down and is now acting upon you laterally?

In summation, you're not cool, you're not gangsta, you're a nearsighted fat fucking tool poseur in a ticked-out-yet-shitass car who lacks the good sense to open the windows or turn the music down.

To the four guys barhopping without coats on while I was out getting gas: I hope you all fucking die of pneumonia.

It's thirty fucking degrees out with wind chills in the teens. Not wearing coats as you walk around downtown doesn't make you tough. It makes you assclowns. I know wearing a coat means you're not showing the whole world your red Ecko Unlimited t-shirt, and that is some sort of a hardship in your world. (What, is Abercrombie and Fitch just too played out for you?)

What was your plan? "Hey baby, I'm so tough I don't wear a coat in the winter. Wanna feel the goosebumps on my scrawny arm?" Christ, did your mothers not tell you not to go out without a coat? (Probably not. She was probably too busy swilling gin and hoping the doctor was wrong about you having fetal alcohol syndrome. Or hoping you would die of exposure so her fat ass could get some charity dick from Marco the gardener.)

Put on a goddamn coat, shitheels. What it hides, no one will miss anyway.

You could say I would RELISH this

Actual text message I sent to my buddies from the bar last night:

I'm not an advocate for violence against women, but Joan Osborne deserves a poke in the chops for every time "What If God Was One of Us" gets played. Kinda like royalties, except with punching.

You can blame my mother's parenting style for the bad pun in the title.

Express Lane Lament

After my ice skating class this week, I stopped at the supermarket. I picked out three items -- iced tea, sour cream, and spaghetti sauce. I reiterate: that's three items. As I despise those self-checkouts (give me a fucking discount for checking myself out and bagging my own groceries and we'll talk. Otherwise, if I'm paying full price, I want full fucking service) I stepped into the express lane.

Big mistake.

I ended up in line behind an off-the-boat African family. Probably Muslim, based on the way the woman was dressed. Apparently, basic concepts of MATH are not taught in sub-Saharan Africa.

First of all, "EXPRESS LANE: 15 ITEMS OR LESS" is very clearly marked. This couple's cart had way more than that.

But my primary gripe is when they filled the cart, they had no idea how much money they were spending. Their original bill was something like $62. They didn't have that much money. At which point, the guy started picking up items from the baggage area, throwing them back towards the cashier, and asking in his broken English how much each item cost, and having the cashier remove the item. A good many of these things were ridiculous. Like a loaf of bread, which was like $1.50. Two pairs of socks -- each of which had different prices. Cheap soap. Loofas. Slowly, slowly whittling the price down.

Finally, noticing the backlog in what is ostensibly the express lane, a manager came over. She had the good sense to ask the guy how much money they had. The guy pulled out FOUR TEN DOLLAR GIFT CARDS. Outside of the federal government and shady contractors, how in the hell do you overshoot your budget by 50%? Also, who walks around with just gift cards and no cash?

(Is this a welfare thing, maybe? Charity, perhaps? Giving out gift cards to use at stores? Honestly, I'm asking. I don't know.)

The manager just started grabbing items and taking them off the bill. Finally, she took a big package of raw chicken off and that got them down to $39.23. I remember this specifically, because the manager then took fully two minutes explaining to the guy that he still had 77 cents on one of the cards.

Finally, they leave, and the manager stayed to bag groceries to alleviate the backlog. She and the cashier started talking about the guy:

Cashier: Who goes shopping and doesn't keep track of what they're spending?
Manager: He comes in here all the time and he's a problem every single time.
Cashier: And who does the think he is throwing food at me to take it off the bill? That may work on his Muslim woman, but I ain't her. That don't work on me!
Manager: The guy comes in here every day asking for a job, too.
Me and Cashier simultaneously: SERIOUSLY?
Manager: Yep. He apparently doesn't understand "we're not hiring" or that him making a scene every time he's here makes us not want to hire him. He actually demands we give him a job.

I get checked out fairly quickly, because I'm not a backward-assed fuck. As I'm walking out, the couple is STILL THERE in the cart area by the door, going over every single item in their cart and on their bill.

I just barely made it home in time for House.

Stores need to deal with this kind of shit. People who grossly violate the express lane should be thrown out of line. Repeat problem customers should be banned.

Also, ENGLISH should be required for anyone to get into and stay in this country. Christ, I dated a girl for whom English was her THIRD language and when I met her I had no idea she was an immigrant because her English was that good. (Actually, her English being that good should have been a tip she's NOT from America's educational system.) Cashiers should not have to explain then repeat EVERY SINGLE THING THEY SAY. Nor should they have shit thrown at them just because certain dumbasses can't do math. They don't get paid enough for that. Hell, this guy's English was so bad I'm surprised he didn't start clicking when he was talking.

Not to get too political here, but it's time we do away with the nicey-nice immigration policies and just start taking the smart people. People who are going to be net producers and not net drains on the system. And who aren't going to piss me off.

Squirrels and Haiti

Where I work, there are a lot of squirrels on the grounds, and I like to go out and feed them peanuts on my breaks if it's not raining. Since squirrels don't hibernate (unlike the chipmunks) this is pretty much a year-round thing.

Some of the squirrels are very used to being fed by humans. They'll come running if you "click" at them or shake a bag of peanuts. There's even one (whom I recognize by his damaged ear) that will take food from my hand, so I make sure to give him a large or three-nut peanut when I see him.

This week, I saw a squirrel with a lump on his face. At first, I thought maybe he was storing some food in his cheek, like chipmunks do. Then I threw him a peanut, and noticed he was eating it very slowly. If you've never watched a squirrel eat a peanut, they will hold the nut with their front paws while they tear half of the shell open with their teeth, then take out the nut and eat it. Then they'll open the other half and eat the other nut. This little guy was having trouble with that. He managed to do so, but very very slowly.

The next day, I saw him again. I threw him a nut (which he took then went up a tree) and he couldn't get through the shell. He kept turning it over and over, and couldn't seem to open his mouth wide enough to get a solid bite on the outer shell. I cracked a few more nuts so he could open them more easily and left them at the base of the tree for him.

Yesterday, I saw him at lunchtime on my way back to work from Subway (when I wasn't carrying peanuts). He was being very sluggish and his breathing was labored. I threw him a piece of bread from my sandwich, and he more or less just rested his nose on it. I went over and squatted beside him, and he didn't run away for at least 15-20 seconds, like he wasn't fully aware of me being too close. (He didn't take the bread.) He ran maybe 10 yards before stopping again.

I don't know what's wrong with the poor little guy. Maybe it's a broken jaw, which makes it hard for him to chew. Maybe it's a tumor, the swelling of which is pinching his mouth shut in addition to whatever the tumor itself is doing.

Point is, this squirrel is clearly not long for the world. I felt really bad for him, and I wished I could help, or, if he's not going to make it (which seems likely), I wanted to find a place to bury him rather than just have the grounds crew pick him up and throw him away. I have to be out of the office today, so he'll probably be gone, either killed by a tumor or of starvation, and I find this incredibly sad.

I do NOT feel this way about Haiti.

Where I live, there are two sports talk stations, an ESPN affiliate, and a FoxSports Radio affiliate. I was doing some shopping two days ago, and the ESPN affiliate was carrying the local broadcast of a college basketball game I didn't care about, so I was limited to the FSR and the INCREDIBLY annoying Petras and Money Show. The segment when I tuned in was Petras, in his high-pitched voice, lambasting this blog post written by former NBA player Paul Shirley. I encourage you to read it.

Petras only read from the italicized core of Mr. Shirley's post, so his initial comments about the Boxing Day Tsunami and Hurricane Katrina were initially lost on me. (Having read the post in full now, I see to what Petras was referring, though I think his spin is wrong.) Petras' take, essentially, was that though he generally liked Mr. Shirley, and acknowledged his freedom of speech, his post was far out of bounds for civil discourse and basically said (paraphrasing here) "If you preface what you say by saying you know your position is an extreme minority position, then you probably shouldn't be saying it." Petras then went on to 1) insinuate that Mr. Shirley was telling people NOT to give anything to Haitian relief, 2) tell us all what a good person he is by donating a princely sum of $10 a day whenever he saw the number on the screen, and 3) equate Mr. Shirley with Rush Limbaugh, whom many on the left view as a raving racist.

(By the way, Petras, freedom of speech exists to protect UNPOPULAR positions, not popular ones that don't need protecting. And every new idea, good and bad, has to start in just one mind, and is as such an extreme minority position. That's why freedom of speech and the marketplace of ideas are so important, and telling people to self-censor leads to all of us parroting vapid party lines. Or us chanting along with empty slogans while the state tells us what is acceptable to think.

For the record, Mr. Shirley has paid for this column. He has done freelance work for ESPN in the past, and has now been dropped. That, incidentally is THEIR free market right, not to use their apparatus for speech they disagree with, and is something the defenders of Bill Maher and the Dixie Chicks only acknowledge when they're on the losing side.)

But what was so unacceptable of Mr. Shirley's column? He's not saying "they deserve to die." He didn't insinuate that they CAUSED the earthquake, or that God was punishing them (unlike noted asshole Pat Robertson), or that Mother Gaia was mad at us for not hammering out a global warming deal during an extreme cold snap (unlike noted loon Danny Glover).

He IS saying that, insofar as the suffering in the wake of the earthquake, yeah, the Haitians do have a little something to do with it. Their infrastructure sucks (despite living in an earthquake zone). Their health care system sucks (AIDS epidemic). Their education system sucks (50% illiteracy). Their economy sucks (rampant unemployment). Whose fault is that?

Their intake budget is 40% foreign aid, largely from the US. They've been an independent nation for over 200 years. In 200 years they couldn't stop electing thugs and kleptocrats? Where has the billions the world sent them gone, apart from the pockets of the Duvalier family? Haiti shares an island with the Dominican Republic, which has a per capita income SEVEN TIMES HIGHER than their neighbors. Why is this?

But why is it viewed as inappropriate for Mr. Shirley or anyone to ask these questions? Petras' less execrable, less annoying co-host at least did acknowledge that Haiti, as a nation, is a basket case, although both did intimate that "now is not the time" for examining Haiti's problems.

Rahm Emmanuel (execrable in his own right) had a saying upon the current Administration taking office. "Never let a crisis go to waste." The Haitian earthquake has left a crisis. No one would dispute that. But if NOW is not the time to use some of the global spotlight to illumine persistent corruption and ineptitude of the Haitian government, fix it, and improve life in Haiti, then when?

Instead, if you read some of the comments, Mr. Shirley's critics in many cases have refused to debate him on the merits or on his logic, and have instead resorted to the ad hominem tactic of calling him an asshole or a racist. I don't know about either claim; I don't know Mr. Shirley and I've not read anything else by him, but I see no evidence for the claims HERE. (And I would suspect that life would have been very difficult for a pro basketball player to be a racist.) What Mr. Shirley has done is ask some incisive and legitimate but uncomfortable questions and explain his position with cool, perhaps even bloodless logic. The response has been emotional rather than logical, and hot-blooded and shrieking instead of calm and respectful. It has cost Mr. Shirley some current and future employment, to be sure. And I suspect Mr. Shirley is a bit dismayed, but overall can live with that.

The point, dear reader, is that one should not feel guilty about not giving to a charity when the recipients have shown no inclination to improve their lot in life to begin with. Sure, the images are disquieting, and there has been a drumbeat of "give, give, give or you're a selfish dick" from millionaire actors in Hollywood and preening, smarmy politicians in Washington. And the images of suffering are largely of the Haitians' own making, by virtue of them persistently installing corrupt regimes who loot the treasury -- a treasury partly filled by US taxpayers -- instead of building the nation.

Unlike Hollywood and Washington types, I actually work for a living, and I suspect what readers I have do also. I refuse to be cowed into opening my wallet by the idle rich. The images of suffering in Haiti move me very little. I am FAR more moved by a dying squirrel who can't eat because of a lump on his jaw.


I gave a dollar to Haitian relief last week in church because it's what I had on me when my priest asked it of us. This week, I will spend $3.99 on peanuts for the squirrels, which will last a month or two. In some eyes, this may make me a bad Christian, or it may make some see me a bad person. (My misanthropy will be explored in the future.) I can live with what other people think.

And it will not detract from the attachment I feel for the squirrels.

Bah

So, I'm at the mall, and I'm checking out flavors at the ice cream shop. There are a few flavors off to the side, so I ducked into a little alcove there to get a better look.

As I'm looking, three girls walk in. I'd say one was early college, one (a blonde) was either a high school senior or a college freshman, and one was maybe a junior in high school.

So we start chatting, and somehow flirting begins. Next thing you know, the blonde starts grinding up against me right there in the little alcove. I was definitely into it, so I told her not to start anything she wasn't willing to finish.

The girl dropped to her knees, right there in the alcove in front of her friends. She unzipped my fly, and then I woke up.

GODDAMN IT.

It wasn't even like a good dream where your brain starts it five minutes before your alarm goes off just to fuck with you a little. This was a good hour and a half before I had my alarm set. I just randomly woke up.

Fuck YOU, subconscious. Fuck you very much.

Although I will say, DAMN I can create a hot construct of a woman in my dreams. Which makes me even more pissed at my brain for taking that away.

RC Has Random Thoughts, 1/20/10

Let's say you have a hemorrhoid.

And let's say you spent the day before snacking on lots of fiber (half a box of Triscuits) -- then had tacos for dinner. Lots of them.

And let's further say you've needed to throw one down for a couple hours while at work but wanted to wait until going home for lunch so you could have softer TP and knockoff Tucks pads handy.

How can you make a dump of this nature more epic? Put on Johnny Cash's "When the Man Comes Around" before heading into the bathroom.

Awesome.

RC's Rink Rants, Vol 1

I ice skate. It's good exercise, it's indoors, it's nice and cool, and it's not that expensive. It beats jogging or going to the gym, and I'd like to play hockey in an adult league when my skating improves.

That said, practically every time I go to the rink I see some shit that just PISSES ME OFF. So I expect posts of this nature will be a regular feature. So let's begin with today, shall we?

1. Why do people insist on photographing EVERY SINGLE MOMENT of their kids' childhoods? Don't get me wrong there are certain things that should be photographed or videotaped. Baby's first steps or first words, and special occasions like baptisms, first communions, weddings, and maybe even wedding nights if you're into that sort of thing.

But there is absolutely no goddamn reason for some fatass mom to WALK out onto the ice in street shoes and take pictures right in the main fucking flow of skating traffic. I wanted to give the bitch an Alex Ovechkin-style knee-on-knee dirty hit. (And he IS dirty, Caps fans, so keep your jerkoff comments to yourself.) It's bad enough when parents hang out through the doors onto the ice to take pictures, you do NOT walk onto the ice -- ever -- and have your kids pose on it while people are trying to skate by. I didn't pay six goddamn dollars to spend two hours dodging your fuckwit spawn.

Lady, you know the nice thing about ice rinks? They're surrounded by glass. Clear glass that you can take photos THROUGH. Or, you can go above the glass in the seating area and take pictures there. "But, RC," you might be saying, "what if she wanted a close-up shot of the kids?" They make ZOOM LENSES for that shit. "What if her camera didn't have a zoom feature?" Then the fat bitch can go on a diet and use the food savings and buy a better fucking camera. Given her size, three days should be enough.

Plus the woman was wearing a Wisconsin sweatshirt. (Not the university, just the state.) These are the assholes that have foisted Herb Kohl, Russ Feingold, and Bud Selig on the rest of us. Fuck them. By the way, Cheeseheads, how does Favre's ass taste?

And one more thing. If you're the kind of person that gets pissy when other people drift into your shots, don't try taking pictures at an ice rink, where people are constantly moving, moron. I'm NOT trying to photobomb you, but I'm already having to dodge you and your kids, I'm sure as hell not STOPPING just so you can have a picture of 2010 when you have Alzheimer's. Assuming you can remember where you put the photo then.

2. Who decided that little girls should scream for their own amusement? Groups of them will count down and scream when they hit zero. Why is this? When that happens, I should be allowed to punch every single goddamn one of them in their heads. "That's aggravated assault, RC!" And them screaming is aural assault. I should be permitted to defend myself.

3. How is it that attractive white girls will, ahem, try to make themselves look Hispanic? Too much mascara, hoop earrings, fake fur hoods on their coats. Oh, and a bastard child. The girl at the rink today could have been a 7 or an 8 if it weren't for these accouterments.

As it was, she ended up more like a 5. She was wearing at least three layers of upper-body insulation (hoodies and her coat). Which is fine, we were at a cold ice rink. But somehow, HER MIDRIFF WAS STILL showing. So she's either classless or stupid, and that costs her points. Also, here's a tip. If you have a muffin-top, no matter how minor, exposing your midriff makes it look a lot worse. THAT gets multiplied if you have a tramp-stamp that draws your eye to the muffin top that's exposed through the midriff.

Get some new winter clothes, wannabe chica.

4. I try not to be racist. Really, I do. But I cannot understand average black youths when they talk to each other. ENGLISH MOTHERFUCKER, DO YOU SPEAK IT? Goddammit! Maybe Harry Reid can come teach them how not to speak with that Negro dialect. It can be like ESL training. He'll need a new career soon enough anyway.