The Blogging Affairs Desk

When It’s Good, It’s Good, When It’s BAD, It’s Better…

Ms. Heather Ellis: On Race and Queuing Up

Heather Ellis:  Lemme recap this for you in case you haven’t heard:  Three years ago, this young woman was at a Wal Mart of all places, when she decided to jump from a slower moving check out lane to a faster one, one which her cousin was already in queue.

The results of the incident depend on who you ask.  Local law enforcement, Wal Mart employees, including their paid security officers, and customers all allege that Ms. Ellis shoved her way to the front of the line, pushed people’s items off the conveyor belt, and when confronted, became violently belligerent.

Ms. Ellis states that she did in fact jump lines, but only became offensive when she was shoved by a “white woman” from behind, whom she cut.  Ms. Ellis also claims that people around her, including customers, employees and eventually the police, all used racially sensitive language against her.  She then claims, as she was being escorted from the property, that the local cops roughed her up.

Wanna know what happened?  I’ll tell you what happened, exactly as it happened, because I’ve actually been in this situation before.

This may come across a little racist, however I’ve been around young black women who’ve been put into this scenario; I lived two out of the three years I spent in NYC in Brooklyn, home of the arrogant self-entitled young black woman.

Ms. Ellis, who was with her cousin decided to cut some people who had been waiting in line.  First off, we’re a nation of incredibly selfish and impatient people; white people have especially low tolerances for waiting in line.  We’re too high strung for that shit, we can’t stand it.  So when someone cuts us, we get bullshit real quick.

Cut me in line during the holidays, and see which of your parts I cut in return.

But we’re not quick to confrontation (with the above omitted), especially towards someone of a different race, especially if that race is African American.  This is because African Americans tend to pull the race card any time they’re confronted by white people.

If you think I’m wrong, you’ve never hung around black folk.  I’m sorry, but it’s true.

I was also a cop for a number of years, so I know how people tend to react when they feel threatened by an unruly mob.  I also know how people tend to think the police use inappropriate and excessive force techniques while they’re actively resisting arrest.  I believe this to be the case with Ms. Ellis.

So yeah, Ms. Ellis cuts a bunch of people, and my guess is that she probably moved people’s shit out of the way in doing so.  The woman behind her, this white lady, probably was wrapping up a long bad day, and she wasn’t going to take this shit.  No, getting cut in line at the Wal Mart by some young black lady who didn’t even acknowledge her when she did it, was the last straw.

So she said some shit.

True story:  A girl I had been dating for a long time while living in NYC, she got cut in line at the Metro Card kiosk TWICE by the SAME black girl.  She was trying to get a Metro Card to get on the train so she could come to Maine and visit me.  She had a ton of luggage with her and she was stressed out because she was JUST going to make her train.  So when she got cut for the second time, she said some shit like “next time you cut, why don’t you figure out what the hell you’re supposed to be doing” because the black girl was taking forever and needed assistance from the guy in the booth to operate the machine.

The black girl turned and attacked my girlfriend, leaving a huge gash over her left eye.  No one helped the poor girl, but a lot of people watched that shit go down.  That’s NYC for you.

So yeah, there was a confrontation at the Wal Mart check out line, for sure.

So the white woman confronts the black woman, and attitudes come out.  The white woman, unless she was a hardcore Klansman’s wife, likely didn’t even get racial on Ms. Ellis.  She probably called her a “bitch” or a “stupid fat pig” or something.  But likely, Ms. Ellis heard “Stupid fucking nigger.”

I’m just saying, folks.  Relax.

The cashier, who’s not going to risk getting stabbed in the inevitable knife fight that’s brewing in front of him for his 8 dollar an hour job that provides nothing in the way of health insurance, tries to defuse the situation by telling the offending Ms. Ellis that she cut, and she needs to either leave the store or go to the back of the line.  Feeling ganged up upon, Ms. Ellis starts becoming even more belligerent.

Security gets called.

Now it’s a big fucking scene and everyone’s just trying to get this obnoxious bitch out of the store.  She’s refusing to leave, because she probably spent over an hour in the huge superstore looking for shit.  She demands to pay for her goods.  Security’s like: “No, you need to leave,” and given that it’s hired private security guards with an educational background consisting of a GED, I’m sure they used a few not-so-friendly words, like “fuck” and “bitch.”

Now the situation has gone volcanic.  I’m sure someone behind the white woman leaned into her ear and said “why didn’t you just let her cut you?”

The cops arrive, because things are now out of hand.

Now, again, I was a cop, I know the procedure of dealing with an uncooperative subject that I’m sure Ms. Ellis had already become.  You have what they call a “force continuum” where the level of forces escalate where the situation deems it appropriate.  Seeing that Ms. Ellis was refusing to leave the property and was becoming increasingly erratic, they likely gave her verbal commands to the effect of “ma’am, please leave the store, or we’ll be forced to escort you out by force if necessary.”

By now, the rational part of Ms. Ellis’s brain kicks in, and she understands that she’s about to be arrested.  However, she doesn’t want to loose face.  I’ve seen this situation develop a million times on Flatbush Ave.  If they simply walk away, it appears in the minds of most African Americans that they’ve lost.  The “bigger man” in this case is usually the one who stands his/her ground the longest.  To confirm this, I have an actual quote from a black guy I work with, who backs up my observation.

“Yeah, you can’t back down, you’ll look like a bitch,” said Rog when I called him earlier to comment on this story.

And as a cop, I’ve seen this behavior as well.  The very first foot chase I was ever involved in as a law enforcement officer involved me chasing down this 18 year old black kid who started a fight in our little downtown square.  I chased him for about two blocks, and when we were far enough out from the crowds of downtown, he gave up.

Later on I asked him why he ran- he knew he was going to get caught.  He stated “I had to, people were watching.  I couldn’t just give up there.”

So back to Wal Mart:  Ms. Ellis is slowly backing out of the store, without her things, and still talking a bunch of shit.  The cops are slowly following her outside, making sure she doesn’t come back in.  Likely, she’ll get a warning for trespassing and disorderly conduct, providing she doesn’t get too belligerent.

Once outside, instead of being rational and just getting into her car and leaving, she makes a threat towards one of the officers, which probably went something like “fucking touch me pig, and I’ll kill you,” which unfortunately the cops can’t ignore.  They inform her that she’s now under arrest for disorderly conduct and making criminal threats against a law enforcement officer.  They gotta take her in.

She doesn’t want to go.

The officers go to affect the arrest and naturally, Ms. Ellis puts up a fight.  She swings and connects with one of the officer’s lips, kicks another in the shin.  All parties go to the deck and once restraints are placed on Ms. Ellis, she’s put up against her car or the cruiser and frisked incident to arrest.  She’s then transported to the local PD or booking facility, and processed.

Her claims of police brutality are largely unfounded.  While affecting an arrest, an officer, at his discretion, can use whatever amount of force, including lethal force, warranted in apprehending a subject.

I’m sure Ms. Ellis got a little roughed up, but she also asked for it when her fight or flight condition took over and she decided on the former.

Now, three years later Ms. Ellis reached a plea deal, after stating that she would never take a plea deal because that would be, to her, an admission of guilt.  She was sentenced to take mandatory anger management classes, do a weekend stint in the clink, pay damages, and serve two years of unsupervised probation.

Not a bad deal, considering what she was likely charged with would’ve probably put her in the booty house for 6 months with a host of fines and a longer probationary period complete with monthly check-ins and piss tests.

Let this be a lesson to everyone this holiday season:  rather than wait in line, do your shopping online.

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November 25, 2009 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Shameless Self Promotion | , , , , | 1 Comment

Sign #13 That You’re Officially An Adult…

As you age there are tattletales that let you know you’ve officially crossed the threshold into adulthood.  Some of these are fussing about health insurance, buying a mattress and a sudden natural avoidance of retailers playing music on their store’s overhead speakers so loud as to not being able to understand the mouth breathing acne-riddled teenage sales associate explain that their out of the size running shoe you’re looking for.adulthood-dvd-launch-drive-video-127

Another marker on the road towards inevitable death is the sudden onslaught of bodily pain.

As we get older our bodies tend to break down, because we as people have a tendency to use them every day.  We use our bodies in various ways depending on the types of people we are.  Some use our bodies for a certain purpose while others tend to let themselves waste away through means I couldn’t explain to you in less than a thousand words.  Regardless, as we put the necessary mileage on our bodies, things tend to not work so well as they did when we were younger.  I like to think of it as Death scratching his long withered finger down our backs to remind us that he’s right there, waiting.

Or at least that’s what it felt like the other night.

Roughly twice, maybe thricely a year I throw my back out, and it’s fucking painful.  My back, particularly my lower back, has been my Achilles’ Heel since about high school.  Even as I write this, sitting at my office desk in front of the computer, my back is still achy, despite mine, and my wife’s best efforts.

It doesn’t help things that I was born with a fused vertebrae – my L12 and T1 or something or other are stuck together and have been since birth.  And apparently that’s somewhat normal (one out of every 8 or 9 people?), according to the quack chiropractor I saw half a dozen times during my senior year of high school.  How did I know he was a jackoff quack shaman?  The license plate on his Mercedes said ‘Thanks.”fused_sm

Regardless, he took X-Rays and pointed out that there was nothing chiropractic care could really do for me, since those two bones in my spine were stuck together.  What compounded things was that I had been somewhat injured at some point growing up, and I never allowed the muscles around my lower back to properly heal.  I can think of two possible incidents that occurred that could be these injuries, but I won’t get into them in this article.

Given that, there’s little I’ve ever really done to correct the problem of my lower back, and as I’ve been getting older, the pain that seems to come with my bi or tri annual bouts has only intensified over the years.  As a college kid, I’d catch a quick muscle spasm, wince, and then go on with my day being a little stiffer until my back decided to play along with the rest of my body and come to its senses.

However, the other night was especially rough, to the point that when my wife asked if I wanted to go to the ER, I actually considered it.  And did I mention that the ER was an hour’s drive away, and fucking terrible by western medical standards?worame1_233901s

I had been dealing with a sore back for a few days already when the Last Great Spasm took place on Tuesday night.  I’m not exactly sure on what exact event triggered it this time around, as I’d been doing a lot of heavy, awkward lifting over the last few weeks, leading up to the LGS.

Our dog Ivy has a hard enough time getting up from the floor let alone into the cab of my truck.  When she’s with me and we’re going for a drive, I’ll walk her over to the passenger side of my F150 and open the door for her.  She wiggles her hind quarters and looks up at me with a dumb grin almost to ask “hey, are you fucking kidding me?  Do I look like I can climb up there?  Have you seen me climb the steps up to the apartment?”

So I squat down, trying to keep my back straight, and scoop her up into my arms and lift her 50 lb body into the truck cab as she’s wiggling around and grunting with exuberance.  Doing this a handful of times over the previous weekend might’ve brought on the LGS.

I’m not blaming the dog, I’m just saying.

So fast forward to Tuesday night, where for the last day and a half I’d been walking around the apartment like fucking Frankenstein; a sour disposition, stiff legs and jerky movements – grunting and mumbling when I spoke, that sort of thing.  I’m sitting on the couch with Ang watching “Zoolander” of all things, when I see something on the floor off the side of the couch.

“Oh, that’s where that went,” ‘that’ being an old dog leash that the ferret’s had decided to hide on us a week or so back.  I leaned over the couch to grab it before one of the little furry bastards could re-hide it on us, when suddenly Ang shot me in the back.470_126937

At least that’s what it certainly felt like.  A hot shiv raced between my discs, its piss-and-shit-soaked tip severing my spinal nerves, shifting everything out of place, causing my entire body to lock up like I was running Windows Vista.

I yelled in agony, my outstretched arm turned into a statue’s claw, my eyes watered up, my tongue swelled, my throat closed.

“Ah, ah-ah-aahh…” I managed to say.  My wife popped up concerned, asking me what was wrong.  I think all I could do was point to my back and try to slide backwards into the couch.  As I did so, it felt like I was sitting on an electric fence.

She moved into medic-mode and secured me on the couch (not so secure that I couldn’t grab for my iPhone when she left the room) with my legs propped up.  She quizzed me about the yoga moves she showed me how to do to help with my back spasms the last time this happened a few months ago and frowned with disappointment when I answered “no” to “have you been doing them?”

Soon I was face down, head hanging miserably off the side of our bed, attempting to realign my spine.  Ang warmed up a heating pad, and sensing that something was wrong with daddy, Ivy came padding over and licked my face.

Pushing her away only emboldened her, as she then decided it would be a good idea to try to lift my head with her body.  She squatted under me and pushed her furry, shedding back against my face, so that the sticky dog spit I was covered in would collect her shedding blonde hair, giving me a patchy bearded look of a high school kid who’s just begun growing out his facial hair.

Ang took a video, of course.

September 4, 2009 Posted by | Getting Older, Shameless Self Promotion, The Great Indoors | , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Fuck It, Let It Ride (With Edits, However)

A slightly edited version of the earlier article.

Given where I live, I spend about 65% of my time on the road, either commuting or running errands.  Since moving to Cape Cod about two years ago, I’ve learned to hate driving, begun to detest riding my motorcycle, and have found that I have “rage triggers” when I’m stuck in traffic.

So I decided to write this article, breaking down my rage as to better understand it.  Each of the following sections will detail exactly how I feel at that given moment, as this piece was written largely in my head, while behind the wheel of my truck as I operated it like I was maneuvering a one ton black bomb on four wheels.

Section One:  Traffic.

traffic

Until I moved to Cape Cod I had never experienced the level of fucking traffic I’ve witnessed on this miserable tourist trap of an island, and this is someone who lived in NYC for three years.  It seems that during the summer tourist months people will come from all over the country to just sit in traffic from the Bourne Bridge to Provincetown.  “Hey kids, let’s go spend a blistering week this summer in our car, packed tighter than inmate’s shit and stare at NOTHING while we drive from one end of Cape Cod to the other!”  Why else would these people come out here?  It’s can’t be because of the beaches, because they suck and are over crowded when they are in fact open (thanks to a species of endangered bird, beaches on Cape are closed for half the summer).

So all these people come out and clog up the major arteries to get around Cape Cod.  What usually is a ten minute drive to the super market a few towns over takes three times as long because there’s just so much traffic to contend with.  Compounding things is that most of these jag offs want to turn left while driving down our one highway, causing a huge log jam of traffic.  The other tourists in the opposite lane won’t yield to let the turner make his turn because they have places they want to get to and can’t be bothered, leading me to lean out of my truck’s open window and hurl a fruit smoothie at someone’s windshield.

Section Two:  Other Drivers.

102_road_rage

As stated above, the mass of population I tend to deal with are out of staters here on vacation.  Like any vacationing sheep, they pack just about everything except their god given common sense.  Hey asshole, how about looking behind you when you back up, and I mean actually looking over your shoulder and not relying solely on your mirrors?  Or if I’m out for a run (I know I’m not behind the wheel of a car at that moment but it relates, just go with it) how about you don’t just pull out blindly from a side street?  Nearly getting fucking T Boned when I’m out minding my own business and trying to avoid you at all costs kinda puts a damper on my spirits.

Also, thanks for flying that “stay the fuck out of my way” flag on your rear view mirror.  Be it a handicap or camp ground parking placard, seeing something dangling from your rear view mirror tells me that you require wide birth because either you’re actually handicapped and shouldn’t be allowed to operate a motor vehicle but we feel bad for you, so here’s a set of keys, go wild, or you’re a fucking tourist staying at a camp ground and have no clue what you’re doing or where you’re going.  Either way, I know to stay the hell away from you.

One more thing about the camp ground placard:  The camp ground placard is also a swell indicator that the operator of the vehicle will likely slam on their brakes at any moment and try to make an abrupt left handed turn into traffic to take his tourist brood to either an ice cream shop, fried seafood restaurant, some gaudy eye-sore of an inflatable knick-knack/t shirt store, or yard sale.  The placard may as well just read “Caution;  Stay Back 500 Feet.”

Section Three:  Parking

103

If there’s anything on Cape Cod that’s an overpriced commodity, it’s real estate.  And at an even higher premium is a parking space.

To wit:  My wife bought a town parking pass to use for when she has to go to work.  This pass is supposedly designed for the purpose of people who work/live in town to be able to park at a reasonably close distance to their places of employment.  However, in practice, this is not the case at all.

On numerous occasions she’s had to double back to our apartment and have me drive her back out to work and drop her off and pick her up because the lot she’s supposed to park in is full.  Now, either the town sold too many passes (at 135 dollars a piece!) or people are just saying “fuck it” and are taking the 20 dollar hit on a parking ticket for illegally parking in the lot which they’ll never pay because they’re out of state residence.  Regardless, it’s a huge pain in our asses.

Also, again, getting back to the whole tourism thing, tourists out here tend to think they can park where ever they want, whenever they want, regardless of people’s feelings or intentions.  We, Ang and I, were going to do some laundry.  We had parked her car in the lot next to our apartment, all the way at the end, so the car would be out of everyone’s way.  It was mid day, the lot was about a third full.

We’re walking down the lot, carrying laundry baskets, detergent, quarters, etc, and we both get that weird sensation that we’re being followed.  So we both turn and there’s this champagne-colored Mercedes with Florida plates slowly rolling behind us.  Behind the wheel is some middle aged self-righteous She-Bitch in a big hat and sunglasses.

She waits for us to get to our car, load our laundry, get in and start the car.  She then proceeds to block us in by taking the spot next to us, making it impossible for us to pull out smoothly, resulting in me having to “shimmy” out of the spot.

Enraged by this cuntbag tourist’s selfish actions, I put the window down on my wife’s Honda and yell out “there’s like a million other spots you could’ve taken!”

From behind her cell phone she calls back “but none of them were in the shade, thank you!”

Thank you?  Was she thanking me for my comment, this arrogant bitch?  I was livid, to the point of wanting to drive directly to the nearest hardware store, purchase a spade, and proceed to bludgeon and dismember this audacious bitch into pieces to be eaten by seagulls.  I couldn’t believe her.

I should’ve rammed Ang’s shitty little Honda into the rear quarter of this old cock dumpster’s Merc, and shouted “THANK YOU!” over and over again.

I would’ve rammed her cell phone down her throat and kicked in her stomach until I dialed Tokyo.

Section Four:  Pedestrians.

pedestrians

Is it me, or do people generally think they have a magic force field around them as soon as they enter a cross walk?

Shortly after the vaginal swab of a tourist blocked us in, we were driving down our main drag when some beer delivery man decided to step out from behind the front of a parked truck, on a crosswalk, without looking to check for traffic, pushing his dolly in front of him.

I hit the brakes hard and let out an audible “YO!” with our windows down.  The dickbag with the hand cart turns over his shoulder at me and says “state law!” and keeps on pushing.

Yes, it is in fact a state law to stop for pedestrians crossing in a crosswalk, very good sir.  But that same state law will not mend your broken legs and hip when you get struck by a car because you failed to uphold your end of the bargain by stepping out into a busy street without looking.

You can claim “state law” all you like as a matter of fact, because when the state police’s accident reconstruction team arrive and release their findings on the collision, they’ll determine I was driving maybe 20 mph and see that you failed to look both ways when crossing a street, the first lesson we as people learn shortly after managing to tie our own fucking shoes.

Left, right, and left again, dildo-licker.

I have all the respect in the world too, for beer delivery people.  It’s a tough job and they truly are some of America’s unsung heroes.  So it sucks that one of you guys has to be a sandy tampon about crossing a street.

Part two of this section:  GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY.

growling_dog

I understand that this certain street by where I work is a thoroughfare of just.., bizarre shit and that you’re all on vacation from your jobs as doctors and teachers and who knows what else, and you’re all having a gay ol’ time, I get it.  However, you’re walking down the middle of a fucking street, dude, where there’s actual traffic, slow moving I know, but it’s still traffic.  We, in the big objects on four wheels known as “cars” can’t fucking get down the street if you and your Abercrombie and Fitch model friends are blocking it up by walking down the middle of it eight abreast, blowing bubbles, slowly riding a bicycle, walking your poof ball little dog, or doing one handed push ups in tiny briefs (for real, not an embellishment).

I have a job I need to get to, and my office is at the tail end of this street.  It takes me almost half an hour to go one mile some times, from the hardware store to my front gate.  If I tap my horn, and I say “tap” because that’s what it is, a friendly “get out of my way please I’m driving here” and not a long, boorish blast that says “hey fucknuts, get the fuck out of the middle of the road or I’m going to dropkick you off the top rope” do not turn your head over your shoulder and give me some bitchy/sassy fucking look like I’m the one who’s fucking up YOUR day.  Just scamper out of my way, that’s all you have to do.  Do not argue with me, because sir, or ma’am or whatever, I am encased in an air conditioned almost-sound proof chamber and can’t hear your bitchy effeminate whining.

Section Five:  The Radio.

Retro Radio DJ

Here’s a sampling of the songs that were playing on my presets as I was writing this article out in my head:  Station 1: Smashmouth “All Star”, Station 2: that one song by The Mighty Mighty Bosstones.  Station 3:  Some generic Led Zeppelin song.  Station 4:  Some generic song by Papa Roach.  Station Five:  NPR’s Fresh Air, but the topic was something obscure and boring, probably to do with some artist I’m unfamiliar with.  Station 6:  WEEI, sports talk radio, which I think is just a cover for their conservative media agenda, so I don’t really listen to it.

I don’t know about where you live, but here on Cape, the radio is fucking trash.  Until my truck was broken into a year ago, I used to listen to my iPod through an FM tuner.  Most mornings on my commute I listen to NPR, unless it’s something boring, as stated, or if it’s The Diane Ream Show, which makes me want to snort a line of chalk and sit down upon the Seattle Space Needle, bare ass.

Nothing is more frustrating than dealing with all the shit I’ve already listed, and then having to fiddle with your pre sets in the car, to find one station out of six that’s playing A) music, and B) something worth listening to.  I love Led Zeppelin, but it doesn’t have to be the only thing the stations around here play, because honestly, I think that’s the only album some of these stations have.  I will guarantee you right now, if I were to flip on the radio in the other room, I could get a Zep song, any Zep song, right now.

YOU’RE RUINING LED ZEPPELIN FOR ME PIXY 102.9!!
I’d shell out for satellite radio, but it seems overly costly for something I can get for free, that’s only really giving me more options.  Instead of 6 channels to choose from, now I have 600, but like that old Bruce Springsteen song goes “150 channels and not a damn thing on” or something like that.

I slam the buttons on the presets so often that I’m actually starting to wear away the numbered decals a little.  And if it isn’t music that’s being played, it’s some god awful local business advertisement, usually a used car lot.

“Come on down to Jeff’s Subaru, where we’ll give you honest prices from honest guys.  Hell, we’ll even throw in a fifty dollar gas card for just taking a test drive!” and so on.  Or the staged interview with the lot’s owner, dispelling some sort of rumor that he has a “private connection” with the factories in Detroit.

Dickhead, Detroit doesn’t make cars anymore, they’re all made in Canada now, get a clue.

I don’t know how to conclude this article, so I’m just going to say this:  People, next summer, just stay the fuck home.  Do me a favor, and don’t come out here, don’t spend your money on an overrated tourist trap, don’t waste your time bullshitting yourself that Cape Cod is a magical place to spend a week or two.  Sell your condo, time share, cottage, and get the fuck out of here.

I’m selling my motorcycle because of you.  Do you know what that means?  Let me put it another way:  I’m 27 years old, and I’m going gray because I get so stressed out behind the wheel.  Just stay home, if not for me, do it for your kids.  Because next summer if I see them lollygagging in the middle of a road I’m trying to transverse, I’ll fucking eat them.  I’ll kick them each in the balls so they can understand the pain I feel.

I fucking promise you.

August 22, 2009 Posted by | Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Gonzo Journalism, Living in an Insane Asylum, Out and About, People I Hate | , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Fear and Loathing Around the Corner

There are many advantages to moving away from a city setting and into a more relaxed and suburban setting, as we did this past week.  For one, it’s quieter, much, much quieter.  I don’t think we’ve even heard our neighbors in the last week, and if we had, it was certainly before 7 pm.

But there are downsides as well; for instance the fact that nothing in our new little town seems to stay open past 8 at night, which can prove to be very bothersome when it’s say, 9ish at night and husband and wife are plum-out of condoms.

This was the case the other night when the discussion of whether to “get-” or “not to get frisky” came up, and responsible ol’ me remembered we were out of condoms.

Not a problem, I thought, there are two places right near by:  a small deli/convenience store and a major pharmacy that’s not a CVS.  Give me a sec and I’ll be right back.

“Bring back some OJ,” she called after me after I dressed, grabbed my keys and headed out the door.

I first drove all of a quarter mile to the local Rite Aid and found it dark and unwelcoming.  I did a small loop in the parking lot getting close enough to the door to see the store’s operating hours and found that I was in fact, too late.

Ok, well, I’ll hit up the little store across the street, I thought, and did so.

I found the little store to be well lit and empty, except the two slackerish early 20-somethings manning the check out and deli counters.  They were engaged in some conversation that I wasn’t really paying attention to, mostly because I was scanning up and down the aisles looking for the fucking condoms.

From the way back of the store, by the coolers with the drinks in them, I saw the limited supply of condoms hanging behind the check out guy.  Now, granted I’m a married 27 year old man, I still hate having to ASK for condoms behind the register, specifying a particular brand.  It’s humiliating and demoralizing.  I don’t even think I’d be able to get it up after the fact, because I would be too busy thinking about the judgmental snickering that would surely be going on as soon as I left the store with my purchases.

So I sent Ang a text explaining that they didn’t sell condoms (which wasn’t a lie; the particular “latex-free” brand we use wasn’t being sold at this particular place anyway, so I was telling the truth) and it was too late for me to drive fifteen minutes to where the Google Maps app on my phone was telling me there was the closest CVS.  She didn’t respond so I simply took the OJ and a thing of Canada Dry Ginger Ale for myself up to the counter.

The goatee’d slacker mumbled something to his partner over at the deli counter, who then hobbled over to where we were standing.  He was some sort of deformed cripple, suffering from obvious bone deformations.  He wore a green M67 field jacket, similar to mine, only mine’s gray and looked at me with a wild gaze; something that would freeze a highway patrolman dead in his tracks if he saw it in a car he had just pulled over on some lonely stretch of American Highway at 2 am.

The other slacker rang up my order and I handed him my debit card.  He then decided to include me into their existing conversation.  I’m not making the following up:

“Hey, would you rather be stabbed with a knife, or something else?”  Said the goatee’d slacker.  I pause for a second, eyeing him and his side kick Quasimodo.  Quasi’s grinning at me and I feel very tense.

“I have to get stabbed?”  I ask.

“Yeah, like, if you knew you were gonna get stabbed, would you rather get stabbed with like,” and the slacker cashier produces a standard black BIC pen from his counter, “this, or with something like,” and from under his coat, Quasimodo produces a black combat knife with a serrated back edge and hefts it at about eye level, still with that slick, sick grin.
The strangest part about all of this is the first thing I notice is how chipped the black is on the knife.  The knife’s blade has been painted black at some factory where they produce cheap pig stickers like the one this mutant is carrying under his coat.  The chipping paint tells me that he’s probably dropped it a handful of times and doesn’t own a sheath for it, or he had at one time, but lost it.  This tells me that the blade’s edge is probably dull from not being maintained or looked after properly, meaning that the knife would be ineffectual should he try to swipe at me in a slicing motion.  However, if he tried to ram it through me, I’d be in for more than a world of hurt.

I go back to my police training.  When I went through academy they taught us about the 21 step rule (no revised to 30+ feet) which is the minimum distance one should be from an adversary with a knife.  The idea is that it’ll take roughly 21 steps before the assailant with the knife can close the distance between the two of you before you can react and draw your sidearm and put a new bellybutton into your attacker’s stomach.

Between me and this freak was roughly eight feet.

I think for a second longer, I consider brandishing both my Gerber in my back pocket and my .380 on my waist, but think better of it, not knowing if these two hooligans would call the cops on me or not.

“Um, I think I’d rather get stuck with the knife,” I finally answer.  I explain that the knife’s purpose is to stab through soft tissue, where as with the pen, it’s job is to write down phone numbers, notes, etc, anything but to stab through your abdomen.  Also, the pen is far more duller than the knife (at least one would think so) so using it as a stabbing tool would be more or less using it like a punch, which would result in morbid levels of pain.

The slacker cashier reluctantly agrees with me and then goes on to note that he would choose not to be stabbed in the stomach, forgoing it for any other part of his body.

“Even your dick?”  I ask.  He again, reluctantly agrees citing that a stab to the cock would be “most painful.”

I signed my printed off slip for my debit card, keeping both eyes on these two lunatics and wished them a good evening as I backed out of the store in a hasty rush towards my truck.

I’m just saying….

March 4, 2009 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Fear and Loathing, Gonzo Journalism, Living in an Insane Asylum, Out and About | , , , , , , | 3 Comments

More Unmailed Letters!

While scouting around Jim’s desk we here at IJS came across more angry correspondence from Jim to various members of the community at large.  Before he could send them out, we decided to print them here.  We hope you enjoy!  -ed.

To:  Joaquin Phoenix

Hey Dick Bag,

I don’t know what your deal is lately, but you’re acting like a massive cunt.  Is it a publicity thing or did your neck throw up a giant hairball?.  In case you didn’t know, no one really buys this charade you’re putting on, this Howard Hughes-esque masquerade if you will.  You’re just an asshole with a chip on his shoulder.

You say you want to retire from acting and pursuit a career in hip-hop?  Wait, hold on, lemme get this straight:  a 40-something year old white guy with a beard and a love of wearing sunglasses indoors other than Rick Rubin wants to get into hip-hop?  You must be in some serious debt to whoever delivers whatever drugs you’re taking because that makes about as much sense as a guy who gets car sick deciding he wants to drive for NASCAR.

Retire already ass clown, you’re movies are pretty much useless.  I couldn’t stand you in “Gladiator” and you were one dimensional in that crap rag “Signs.”

And don’t get me started with the “The Village.”

Obviously your dead brother River still has more talent than you do.

Respectfully yours,
James.

To:  The Guy Working The Early Shift at The Hess Gas Station on North Street

Sir,

Let’s me and you get something straight right now:  You work at a gas station/convenience store on Cape Cod and you’re old enough to be virtually harmless.  Based on this, I don’t want to have to be forced to crack a baseball bat over your simple gray head because you constantly refuse to turn on the fucking pumps in the morning due to your blithering ineptitude.

Hey, life didn’t give you a million dollars to convert into change and allow you to swim through like Scrooge McDuck – I understand, it’s shitty.  But your station in life is to man the fucking little switches by the cash register and Massachusetts Lottery machine and display of Five Hour Energy Drink.  When it starts beeping, flip the goddamn switch so I can pump my gas and be on my way.

Maybe you don’t realize this but there are people who have to commute to work at ungodly hours because their office is more than an hour away.  It’s also fucking freezing outside, if you hadn’t noticed; so me standing at the pump, leaning against my truck, squeezing and squeezing the handle while I watch the little LED display read out say “Awaiting Pump Authorization” because you’re diddling cigarette packs out back or just plain taking a shit in the bathroom, is incredibly irksome to the point where I may put a size 9.5 Timberland boot up your paste-colored ass.

I have dainty feet, and believe me, they will fit up a motherfucker’s ass.

The next time I’m forced to wait for you to do your goddamn job, I’m going over the counter, switching the pump on by myself and then laying down a pool of gasoline in the parking lot and setting that bitch on fire.  Do you’re fucking job old man and we can avoid any unnecessary violence.

Sincerely,
The Guy With the Scarf and the Black F-150 that Hates Your Guts Twice a Week at 0530 in the Morning, and You Know It.

To:  The Guy With The Cottage For Rent.

Dude,

Seriously, I called you like four separate times, and emailed you twice, once from my work email and another from my gmail account.  I, rather, we were really interested in that cute cottage out in Eastham.  I saw the pictures online, I saw it had a little woodstove, and the price was right.

So why did it take you over a week to get back to me?

I don’t know how you do business; maybe this is status quo for you, but as far as I’ve figured, especially in this economy, you’d think realtors and landlords would be scrambling to get people to see their places for rent.  I mean, over a week bro, and when you called, you sounded like it was a huge hassle for you to show the place.

I quote:  “Well, I need to know if you want to see the place right now.  I have to drive all the way out from Hyannis to show it and uh, if you’re really interested, I need to know some stuff about you.”

So I answered your stupid questions, what I do for work, what my wife does, will I submit to a credit check, etc.  I told you I’d be there in an hour and you sighed and said something like “it’s not even that nice of a place.  Those photos were taken in the summer when there were flowers and stuff.”

Jesus buddy, are you planning on renting the place before the next coming of Christ or what?

But don’t worry about it, when we spoke I was actually on my way to see another place that I liked a whole lot more, that hopefully we’ll be moving into shortly.  I don’t feel bad one bit for not calling you back to cancel either.

I hope you enjoyed waiting for me as much as I did waiting for you.

Suck my dick,
James.

To:  The Host of Cash Cab

Dear Media Puppet,

There’s a lot to complain about your show, such as how easy the questions are, how you never leave the borough of Manhattan, how you seem to only pick up tourists on vacation, etc, but there’s one thing I’d like to complain about, and it’s you, sir.

First off, you’re a terrible host.  You try to play up the drama with your unsuspecting tits of fares by acting like they got a question wrong when everyone in the world knows they got it right.  You also try to act like some sort of sketchy old man when fares first enter your cab, which makes no sense at all, because I doubt that A) you’re readily recognizable to anyone and B) typically people entering cabs aren’t paying much attention to the driver, just so long as he’s not one of those weird black people that “probably have an accent.”

And back to the questions:  They are insanely easy and yet all over the place.  You’ll ask like twelve third grade-level geography questions and then slam the unsuspecting bastards with something obscure out of a college lit appreciation class.

Ugh, is Man Verses Wild on any time soon?

Taking The Next Cab,
James.

I’m just saying…

February 13, 2009 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Living in an Insane Asylum, Out and About, People I Hate | , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Unmailed Letters: New Years Edition

It was once said that the most therapuetic thing you can do is write some letters and not mail them out.  So here now, is the latest installment of these unmailed letters:

To:  The Neighbors Downstairs.

Dear screaming minorities,

Hi, Jim and Ang here, the young couple who lives up above you, and is often subject to your yelling-at-all-hours domestic fights.  I normally wouldn’t be writing to you because we’ve been putting up with whatever the hell is going on down there, whether someone one a contest of fabulous prizes or has set something on fire,  for the last few months.  It’s normal, we understand that we live in a somewhat low-rent setting, so we can expect there to be people with screaming children and squabbling amongst adults.  But when you have the balls to slap whatever pet you own against your roof, our floor, because you think we’re being too loud on our wedding day, at our reception party, you cross the line.

Maybe you don’t understand:  We hear ever fucking argument you people have down there, from the seething between the teeth confrontations of adultery to the mixed language shouting matches that we think sometimes you guys have just to see who’s louder.  We put up with it even though the manager’s office is a short phone call away and our phones are on the bedside table.  We could call the cops or immigration on you, but we don’t, because we know how it can be some times.

So fuck you.  It was our wedding day, we had a few people over, people were drinking, etc.  Most of our guests had left before 2100, and you knock on our floor?  I don’t care how young all ten of your kids are, fuck that.  Next time you guys get loud, I’m going to flood your apartment with fear toxin and march around the place with a rifle and a gas mask.

Sincerely,

J and A.

To:  The Guy at Sbarros Pizza

Dear Loser,

I know you’re getting paid probably 8 dollars an hour, and your sad little tip… paper plate by the napkins tugged a heart string inside of me, sure, but dude, seriously, do your fucking job like a human being with some goddamn common sense.

I won’t mention that two slices of pizza and a medium Coke cost us over ten dollars today.  I won’t mention that you failed to even remotely heat the pizza.  But I will mention that you filled the fucking cup completely with ice followed by two little half-assed squirts of soda and charged us a buck-eighty for it.

Is that part of the Sbarro Pizza training procedure?  I know soda is an incredible mark up for any fast food chain.  It costs you pennies per cup of soda, which you turn around and charge 100+% on to the consumer.  I understand that’s how your company generates it’s overhead and production costs, but it’s insulting to stand there, watch your immigrant ass stuff as much ice cubes (that really, cost nothing) into a paper cup as possible knowing that I’m going to be paying out the ass for it.

So we sat down, a few feet away, knowing already before we really got into the pizza that it was going to be a sub par experience: two bites in and we both shared the same disappointed look.  Ugh, what an asshole, we both said to each other.  This isn’t even WARM pizza.

So thanks for taking our money and giving us nothing in return but terrible tasting pizza and two sips of soda.  As my wife eloquently put it:  “There’s ten dollars I won’t be getting back any time soon…”

Sincerely,

The Young Couple (waiting for your chubby ass in the parking lot with lead pipes and switch blades).

To:  The Junkie Who Robbed The Hut Today

Dear Crackhead,

I’m not gonna empathize with you one bit.  You want to frighten my employees by demanding money out of the drawer, scaring the piss out of little 20-something girls so you can get your Holiday Spirit on?  I wish it had been me working today when you tried that shit because I would’ve made you take your last breath out of a hole in your neck you son of a bitch.  I would’ve rammed so many pairs of high end fashion sunglasses up your ass you would’ve been tasting Prada plastic til 2011, you caustic sore on the arm pit of society.

I dare you to try that shit with me, and you know what, I’ll even give you MY KNIFE so you’ll at least have a half a chance lasting more than twenty seconds with me, bitch.

I’ll wear you out like a pair of black Chucks.  So help me god.

Sincerely,

Your New Nightmare.

To:  Kathy Griffin

Dear Ms. Griffen,

You’re our new hero.

Sincerely,

A and J.

January 1, 2009 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Living in an Insane Asylum, Out and About, People I Hate, Why Am I Watching This? | , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

I Don’t Know About You, But I Don’t See Anything to Smile About…

For the last twenty or so years, Hollywood has been trying to get in on the type of action usually found behind the wheel of police cruisers.  This all started with “COPS”, which in the late 1980s gave people at home a feel for the dangers of confronting urban black people in Miami crack dens  -as well as Miami crack dealers their fifteen minutes of blurry faced fame.

But now, (spoiler!) FOX is attempting to launch “Smile!  You’re Under Arrest” which apparently blends touches of Mtv’s Ashton Kutcher gotcha vehicle “Punk’d” and long running reality series “COPS” together into some sort of gray, tasteless, sure-to-be-filled-with-terrible-puns, burrito.

The premise is this:  Some whacky Sheriff out in Arizona schemes some overly elaborate “sting” to bring in low-level criminals, usually those with non-felony warrants, to him and his deputies.  This is typically done with mailers, or flyers that get sent out to the subject’s address promising gifts and prizes if he shows up to a warehouse or a strip club or something.  Once he arrives, some sort of spectacle is made out of the unsuspecting suspect, and before you know it, he’s tackled to the ground, face down on a crusty strip club carpet.

Obviously this type of television works because most people love to see someone duped, and who better to dupe than a “law breaker.”  By “law breaker” these are hardly hardened criminals; as previously stated, it appears that most of the marks featured on the programme have bench warrants issued for their arrests stemming for missed court dates, missed fine or ticket payments, or something to that effect.  What surely won’t be seen on this show are hardened pipe hitting motherfuckers who would be quick to take hostages when confronted with a barrage of good ol’ boy deputies and tv cameras.

Accord to the article I read, the Maricopa County Sheriff, Joe Arpaio, the chief pro-(or an-, depending on how you look at it) tagonist, is already under scrutiny for his absurd law enforcement techniques.  The local jail, which he oversees, has its prisoners living in surplus military-style tents, dresses inmates in comical white and black striped jump suits, and requires them to work in actual chain gangs, where they’re shackled together at the ankles.

Apparently the Eighth Amendment (look it up.) does not apply in Arizona.

Not to mention that Maricopa Co. has paid out millions of dollars in wrongful death suits, presented by family members of inmates who’ve mysteriously wound up dead while serving time for misdemeanor charges that result in less than a year’s worth of jail time.

Sheriff Arpaio claims that it was he who was first approached by producers of the tv show due to his “take charge” attitude towards law enforcement.  The fascist also claims that The Fox Network has also helped pay not only for the elaborate sting operations, but also made healthy contributions to the Sheriff’s Department (ahem, why does the word ‘bribe’ seem to flash in my head when I read that? -ed), allowing for the Department to upgrade its beleaguered communications center and fleet of police cruisers.

Also, deputies wishing to take part in the “fun and activities” do so off the clock, meaning they’re not getting detail or OT pay.  Apparently getting to be on television, making a mockery of good police work, is pay enough.

This whole thing smells like burnt bacon if you ask me.  In my law enforcement career I came across two types of cops:  The first kind were the guys who wanted to make an impact on the communities they served.  They wanted to provide safety and harmony amongst the people who were paying them.  They went out every day making good arrests on actual criminals that meant harm to citizens and peace officers alike.  Then there were the other kinds of cops were thrived on making life miserable for everyone.  These were the guys who went out of their way to fuck with honest, hard working people because they got off on it.  They had been picked on their whole lives for their own personal little ticks and eccentricies, so the next course of action for these goose dicks was to have authority vested upon themselves and abuse the shit out of it to make up for lost time.

Now, which kind of cop do you think I was, and what type of cop do you think this Sheriff Arpaio is?

Because I’ll tell you this much:  The two types hate each other.

Yeah, both sides can agree that criminals need to pay for their crimes, this is true, however there are bigger fish out there than the guy who missed his monthly fifty dollar court payment.  There are drug dealers and pedophiles both hunting down the innocents of our communities.  There are investment brokers and CEOs bilking thousands of hard workers every day, all in order to buy a thirty thousand dollar umbrella stand.  What about the serial killers preying on our coeds and prostitutes for chrissakes?!  And you mean to tell me you’re going to allocate exuberant resources in tracking down a dude with unpaid parking tickets?!

What an asshole.

I’m just sayin..

December 30, 2008 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, People I Hate, Shameless Self Promotion, Why Am I Watching This? | , , , , | Leave a comment

The Stuff I Bitch About While I Wait for The Next Season of ’24’ to Start

When you were a kid, and your mom wanted to go visit a friend of hers, who also had a kid your age, you two were left in a room together and expected to play nice.  Nine times out of ten this would work, because typically kids can get along because all kids like the same things.  These things are, in no order:

Candy.

Ninjas.

Robots.

Robot Ninjas that Dispense Candy.

Given this, you could leave kids alone together for hours and again, typically they’d get along just fine with very little adult super vision.  Unfortunately, grown-ass men can’t be categorized in the same fashion.

Last night, The Lady and I were to go out to dinner with one of two couples:  Either McG and his wife and baby, or The Lady’s friend Tot, and her new boyfriend.

McG had been calling and asking me to come out to have dinner with him and his family for the past two days.  Why, I have no idea, maybe just to be friendly, but Tot had been wanting to see me as well, mostly to get my approval on her new boyfriend John, a 30-something year old floor installer whom she met someplace at some time.

So that was the decision.  I really didn’t want to spend my evening with this guy cuz I saw the inevitable coming down the pipe; I was going to be saddled with this guy I just met and be expected to become best friends with him within five minutes, like back when I was a kid and being dropped off on to some other kid whom I knew nothing about.

So we blow off McG for some reason, probably due to the promise of smoked ribs and fresh home made apple pie, to McG’s promise of.. watching baseball and drinking beers.

We arrive and are met by a pack of wild dogs, mostly Labs, and I’m introduced to the tall, dark haired lanky John, who wears a Kevin Youkilis-style goatee and bald head.  Right off the bat I knew things were going to go horribly wrong based on the hand shake alone.  It was sloppy and I didn’t get a good purchase nor eye contact from John.  Ugh.

So we all sat around an open fire in the backyard’s fire pit and shot the shit for a few minutes.  I kept to myself, just watching the flames on the wood as John kept promoting himself in various ways:

“I made the fire,”

“I know this song, it’s” whatever the song happened to be.  This was blended in with various jokes about Jews, blacks, hispanics and other minorities, which as the night wore on, this became nerve rattling and overbearing.

I used to be that guy.  I used to be that guy at the party who would drop the shock-value racist joke, or act as though I was racist, anti-semetic or misogynistic.  I did it for a laugh because I enjoyed being that character at the party that people would be like “is this guy for real?”  I also tended to wear sunglasses at night, drink to the point of blacking out, and chase crying young women into bathrooms while hurling insults at their lack of beer pong athleticism.

But now seeing a muted version of myself in the form of this guy on the other side of the camp fire, I realized how much of a dick I was/am; looking at myself with more objective and self reflecting eyes.

Not wanting to be left alone with John, I mentioned to The Lady that I left my gun in her car, under the driver’s seat, as she was taking off with Tot to go to the store to get smokes and beer.  Being that she legally cannot possess a firearm in this state, I had to go along, leaving John and the dogs behind.

After we got back we all sat around the fire eating meat off of bone, and drinking beer, all feeling very primal.  I tried to corner John into a conversation about his background, but he was evasive to my mental probing, dodging around tactfully to my attempts to let him take control of the conversation to see where he’d take it.

Let this be a tip:  If you ever want to get a feel for someone, let them talk.  And listen to what they say; a person will spill all their most guarded beans in the first hour of a conversation with you.  It’s just up to you how to hear and interpret what they say.

John wouldn’t play my game, just giving me bare bones information.  Before I could really sink my claws into his psyche The Lady pulled me off with a Capri Sun and more ribs.

I can’t imagine how awkward things could’ve become should I be left alone with this guy, under the expectations we’d bond over something like sports, or … cars or whatever else guys are supposed to mutually like.  A friend of mine from work suggested this tip when I complained the other day at the prospect of meeting new people I didn’t care to meet in the first place:

“Find out something about them that they like, and then feign interest in it,” he starts.  “You just keep asking them about that topic over and over again, while pretending to be interested in what they have to say about it.  People love to talk about themselves, the things they like, and so on.  Just give him the ball and let him run with it.  I do it all the time.”  He finishes.

“You see how I’m letting you run with it right now, right?”  I ask him from behind my desk.

“Yeah exactly, see, you know what you need to do.  Just make the focus about him, and you’ll be all set.”

There’s also the reverse effect where this guy could think I’m a total controlling prick with ice chips in my veins.  He did make some attempts at bridging that gap between he and I by asking the cursory question about how long Ang and I have been together.  But in the end it was just mindless small talk that got us no where.  It was the same line of questions you’d ask someone if you were riding in an elevator together and the silence became so overwhelming that you could visualize burying a knife into the other person’s neck.

Or maybe that’s just me.

At the end of the evening, after pie (which was probably the most amazing thing I’ve put in my mouth since adulthood, the perfect blend of fresh apples with just enough sticky sweet filling that grabs your taste buds by the shirt collars and shakes the shit out of them while screaming in their faces to get a job, move out of their parents basements, and stop spending their days jacking off aimlessly in the dark to gigabyte after gigabyte of internet porn.), we said our goodbyes.  I said goodbye to Tot and then turned towards John, where things became suddenly very awkward.

I was anticipating the “nice to meet you” type of good bye, but what came out of his mouth was something different.  I can’t remember exactly what he said, but my already prepared response of “yeah you too” didn’t fit at all, yet still sputtered out of my mouth like a dry wad of cotton.  I extended my hand and he took it, and pulled me into a one armed “bro hug” that I totally despise.

If you’re above the age of 21 or 22, and you’re with someone you’ve met a handful of hours before, and no real connection has been made, don’t “bro hug.”  “Bro hugging” is reserved for only the deepest of friends or cell mates, not for other men you’ve only passingly encountered.  It’s weird and makes me feel violated.

I’m just saying….

October 12, 2008 Posted by | Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Gonzo Journalism, Living in an Insane Asylum, Out and About | , , , , | 1 Comment

Thesis: The Consequences of Punching a Motherfucker in His Head

So the other day, while waiting in a Boston hospital waiting room, I got to thinking:  I think I need to start punching more motherfuckers in their heads.

I sat wondering why I’ve only seldomly punched assholes.  I can probably count on my one hand how many people have been on the business end of my fist.  So I sat wondering why I haven’t gone down this road more often in my past.

I’m beating down 27’s door, and as I post this, it’s roughly 24 days away.  Time’s running out for me to be able to punch out an asshole and be able to play it off as youthful indiscretion, unless I have a really good reason, as in, I’m attacked, The Lady is insulted or assaulted, or I’m just plain drunk and have mistaken the Pakistani cab driver as Magneto.

So what would be the consequences for me, should I decide to whack a motherfucker in his mouth?

First, there’s the immediate consequences:  As my father once told me in my pre-teen days “Jim, if you ever have to hit someone, hit first and hit hard enough that they can’t hit you back.”  So let’s say you swing on a fool, and you don’t do much but dent his ego, he might come back and pummel the shit out of you.  And unlike high school, it’s doubtful that the home ec. teacher will intervene on your behalf, Mary Francine.

Also, there’s the off hand chance you break your fist on this cro magnon’s thick skull.  If you don’t have health insurance expect to pay hefty installments to the saw horse who puts the plaster to your digits.  And even then, should you have adequate health insurance, you’re going to be wearing a cast on your dominant hand for up to four weeks while your fragile phalanges heal up, Tiger.  Remember:  it’s not always a case of steel fist vs. glass jaw.  Sometimes it’s the reciprocal.

Then you have the whole legal ramifications for letting a motherfucker know you mean business.  Based on what I know from being a cop in the State of Maine, simple assault is a Class ‘D’ misdemeanor, which means that it’s slightly worse than shoplifting something under $50.00s or public intoxication.  Simple Assault, if directly witnessed by a law enforcement officer is an arrestable offense.  Remember when I said no one would intervene should you pimp-slap a silly bitch?  If you’re stupid enough to do it in front of a cop, you’re gonna get a set of bracelets and a ride in the cop car to the station.

Depending on your arrest record (as in, how many times you’ve been in the back of a cop car) your bail could be between $40 bucks (basically a PR, personal recognizance bail, where you’re only promising to show up on your arraignment date, and giving $40 dollars to the bail commissioner to do the paper work for you) to up to $200 dollars, all of which but $40 you get back should you show up on your court date (the forty, again goes to the BC).

So let’s say you go up to the station, you’re processed and make bail, meaning you won’t spend the night or weekend (fuck up on a Friday night and don’t make bail, expect to see the magistrate on Monday afternoon.  Keep your butthole tight motherfucker), your night’s over.  It’ll likely be an early morning hour when they bounce you, you’ll smell like piss and shit, and that buzz you’ve been nursing will be long gone.  Hope you’re not a smoker either.

Ok, so you make bail, you show up at your arraignment.  An arraignment, for those of you who don’t know, is your first court appearance where you’ll either plead guilty or not guilty of the crimes that you’re accused of.  For something so simple as… well, simple assault, you’d have to be fully retarded not to plead guilty and just pay the fine, which after court fees, could be between $200 to $400 dollars.  Luckily, you can apply your left over bail money you put up for yourself towards the fine.

If you’re a total fucking idiot, or perhaps, falsely accused, and you plea not guilty, expect another court date down the pipe, where you’ll have to hire a lawyer, provide witnesses or sworn affadivits attesting your innocence.  The price for all of this is astronomical, and if you’re still found guilty, which 4/5s the time you will be, expect an even higher court fee for taking up everyone’s time.

Ok, so let’s back pedal real quick.  What if you don’t blast a sonuvabitch into the next county in front of Johnny Law?  Well, two things can happen:  Either the knucklehead shrugs it off, goes home and puts a bag of frozen peas over his eye and rolls with it, or, he can be a bitch and call the cops on you.

Now, if he calls the cops on you, all the cops can do is cite you with the court date to show up and plea guilty or not guilty.  Ever seen “Law and Order” or ever heard of your Miranda Rights, which in short tell you to shut the fuck up when the cops are talking to you?  Yeah, this is where you’d use them.  When the cops swing by to talk to you, ask you where you were, and such, tell them to screw.  If they have paper work for you, tell them you’ll sign it and then ask them to leave.  You’re not going to to talk to them, and if they want to talk to you, tell them to contact you’re attorney, even if you don’t have one (they won’t know, and unless it’s murder they want to talk to you about, won’t pursuit it further.).  In short, shut the fuck up, but be cooperative.  No one says you have to answer their questions.

So, they cite you, you’re not paying fees or bail yet.  Just remember to show up for the arraignment, or they’ll issue a bench warrant for you.

The downside to court, and this goes doubly if you plea ‘not guilty’ and have to show up for a trial date down the line, you lose days of work.  This might not effect someone who’s self employed or makes salary, but if you’re making wage, that’s at least two days pay you’re missing out on, plus court fees in the end.

So ok, what if the guy never goes to the cops?  We’ve already discussed that if you do in fact put him on his ass and he goes home to walk it off, you’re pretty much in the clear.  This is in the case of you and a friend drinking at a bar one night, he misunderstands something you said, and punches you out, resulting in you punching him out.  Ok, all’s even-steven, both of you have a chipped tooth or fat lip or black eye.

But what if you hit him way harder than he hits you?  Or he doesn’t even swing back?

Maybe he’s a huge pacifist or maybe he figured he had it coming.  Some people have that sort of balanced mentality.  But sometimes, people will plot revenge.

This is way worse than someone taking you to criminal or civil court (I didn’t want to get into the civil arena with this, because it’s unlikely any civil court judge would entertain a case of simple assault, unless there were major damages at hand, which would obviously push the case out of the realm of ‘simple’ assault, towards ‘aggravated,’ which is a felony.  Need an example of ‘agg assault?’  Ever seen “Fight Club” where Ed Norton decimates Jared Leto?  Takes his eye out?  Yeah, that’d be a Class “C”  or even “B” assault, felony, you’re gonna do at least 15 months to two years in the slammer, jammer.)

So revenge.  This means that you’re going to be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life, until this asshole gets even with you.  It doesn’t necessarily have to be punch for punch.  Your car or other property could get fucked with.  Your family could be the target of harassment or assaults from other members of this asshole’s clique.  And then there’s some people who’s pride gets in the way, and knives and guns come into it.

So, the whole thesis here was why I don’t punch motherfuckers out more often.  Well, in short, all this I’ve just written down, usually goes through my mind as I start squeezing my fist, and the vein in the side of my face starts to pulse.  Yesterday, on my way home from the office, I was driving along, doing just a hair over the speed limit (like 45 in a 40 MPH), when some asshole pulled right out in front of me, causing me to slam on my breaks, swerve into the on coming lane (luckily no one was coming), smoke to shoot out from my tires as my back end slid out from behind me.  I regained control of my truck, got back into my own lane and kept driving, while looking in my rear view.  The other truck just kept on going, only to stop to let me swerve around it.  The whole time I wanted to pull over, turn around, and chase the motherfucker down, get him to pull over, and pummel him on the side of the road.

But I thought about all the bullshit I’d have to go through should I do that, and kept driving.

But crushing his face with my clenched fist would’ve made me feel a lot better at the moment.

I’m just sayin….

October 7, 2008 Posted by | Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Out and About, Too Much Time | , , , | Leave a comment

What (Hulk) Hogan Doesn’t Know…

Hulk Hogan can’t possibly see himself in the light that Vh1 casts him in.

Either that, or he’s horribly blind to blatant patronizing at the hands of his show’s producers.

If you’ve never seen the tacky, albeit wholesomely sweet and predictable, reality television program “Hogan Knows Best” or it’s tension-filled spin off “Brooke Knows Best” then let me fill you in: The Hulkster, one of the great 1980s bring-backs who somehow gained relevance in the last few years, has a sometimes-kinda hot daughter by the name of Brooke, who is struggling to make it the next blonde pop star, apparently missing the boat on that endeavor by about ten years.

In the early episodes, we were introduced to the entire Hogan clan, which consisted of Brooke and Hulk, as well as son Nick (currently serving out 14 months in prison in connection to a near fatal car crash that quadded his Marine buddy) and wife Linda. The foursome would travel about in support of Brooke’s singing career, while whacky antics ensued, usually at the hands of Hulk trying to chase Brooke’s paramours.

It was all very wholesome.

But things went south for the Hogans at the end of last year. Nick got into his accident, and then cried on national television that his cell was too small. Linda divorced/separated from Hulk – after it became known that Hulk had slept with one of Brooke’s friends, and Brooke moved out and into an apartment with a scripted “less hot/interesting” female roommate, and a gay dude.

So that would bring us to the new season/show of “Brooke Knows Best.” With Nick in the slammer and Linda wanting nothing to do with cameras, so she can boff her hired fitness instructor, all we’re left with is the tensely sad relationship between an overbearing father and a reasonably (yeah, I’d do her) hot twenty-something who’s trying to grow up on her own.

Watching this show is like being stuck in a room with a fighting couple who won’t talk to each other, it’s that awkward.

No one likes that dad who just “shows up.” My dad used to do this, and it’s critically embarrassing to the child. Don’t get me wrong, my dad’s a cool guy, but whenever someone who’s not invited decides to show up and try to be the life of the party, the collective milk sours.

This is the case with Hulk, where inevitably in every episode he makes a bumbling/stumbling cameo, and “butts” into Brooke’s ever evolving social life, much to her two roommate’s rolled eyeballs. To make matters worse, often in tow is Hulk’s inept sidekick, Nasty Knobs, of the tag team also-rans “The Nasty Boys.”

When I see this egg shaped, blonde rat tailed mutant, for some reason all I can think of is the back stage sex he’s probably had. He’s probably had hot chicks blow him, and I can’t see why they would, other than to wrap their dicks around a quasi-famous dick. But in my mind’s eye I can totally see him getting blown and talking mad shit about the tart on her knees in front of him, with her skirt hiked up to her waist.

Anyway.

Of course the show is geared towards the tension between daughter and father, and no parent does a better job of exploiting this, as he’s about as smart as someone who for the last 35 years has made money by tearing off his t shirt, and then dancing about the ring, pantomiming that he can’t hear you.

The show itself is weak and uninteresting, and the plots (or rather, plot singular) are very formulaic and predictable. Here’s a sample:

Brooke goes out someplace with her little entourage, and meets a handsome, albeit dumb-as-a-post boy who’s dressed in something off of an Abercrombie and Fitch mannequin.

Enter Hulk, trying to seem innocent enough as he crashes the party where it’s painfully obviously he doesn’t belong. Crowd inevitably turns attention to Hulk, who soaks it up like a dry sponge.

Brooke confronts Hulk, Hulk develops “why me” look on face, promises to vacate premises.

Hulk leaves, yet lingers about in parking lot, talking to Nasty Knobs about a scheme to sneak back in to scene.

Hulk unsuccessfully manages to disguise self, wanders back into party, is discovered, Brooke sighs, rolls eyes, my heart turns a little more blacker, roll credits.

I’m not exactly sure who this tv show is aimed at, whether it be nostalgic college frat boys who find Brooke hot, ditzy teenage girls who somehow relate to a steroid-injecting father figure that Brooke has to put up with, or some middle ground in between, yet Vh1 plays this show obviously as a break between the lustful greed of “I Love Money” reruns.

***

On a quick note, Hulk Hogan is a good father, despite everything I just wrote. This shot of current event memory just surfaced, where Nick was on the phone with Hulk shortly after he was sentenced. While Nick was focusing on all the negatives, Hulk was presenting him with his own show ideas, which he was criticized for once the tapes were released to the public media.

“How dare he!” Cried the public media, “his son’s in jail and all he can think about is promoting another show!”

He wasn’t promoting another show, you pack of hyenas, he was distracting his son. You could hear the hushed pain in his voice as he was trying to take the boy’s mind off the four walls around him, closing tighter every day.

It’s something my dad would definitely do for me.

I’m just sayin’…

August 13, 2008 Posted by | Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Too Much Time, Why Am I Watching This? | , , , | Leave a comment