Your Children Are Not Precious

I often go back and forth with the idea of having my own children. Some days I'm thrilled with the idea of extending my lineage, another generation of proud people who happen to share my last name. Other days, I gag at the idea of bringing a defenseless child into this world. This is usually brought upon by seeing how other people interact with each other on our shared planet. Do I really want to subject another living person to having to deal with 6 billion dicks, pussies and assholes?

I find myself and the RM sitting down at the local KFC/Taco Bell here in town, and there's a mild circus going on. There's two women, having a conversation at table, completely oblivious to the five or 6 five-year-olds tearing the eatery apart, running amok in the restaurant, jumping on seats, throwing food, and other wise being undisciplined in public.

When I see situations like this, with the kids screaming at the tops of their lungs unchecked and treating the indoors like the outdoors I get tense. I stare and hatred builds inside of me. After many years of living on this earth, I've come to terms with the fact that the public spaces I inhabit do not necessarily belong to me and me alone for my own enjoyment, but to everyone else as well, but some things done in public are just too outrageous for even the most jaded observer.

You child unleashed is one of them.

I can't fully explain how deep my hatred goes for children when I see them just... going crazy for no reason. And yes, I understand the two mothers in this situation are probably on vacation, which means that for the rest of the god-fearing public, we're just going to have to endure the frustration of ridiculous kids ruining our lunches and giving us head aches, because god forbid a mother on vacation lift a finger to discipline a child of their own in public. But my rage is being pushed to a limit where it's likely I will pluck one of these little rug rats by his ears, and punt him through a glass window should he get within grabbing distance to me, is obviously not a concern to anyone but myself and maybe my roommate.

Attention: Your child is not a precious little being who in his heart and soul holds all that his sweet and innocent in this world. No, your child is an unrelenting asshole. Your child is the equivalent of a dickhead at a party who does nothing but blather on, story after boring story about his life, which no one cares about. Your child is an awkward example, and directly in relationship to, your poor parenting and inattentiveness. If you never really planned on having a child, or perhaps thought it was a trendy thing to do because your so-called friends from high school whom you've not been in contact with in over five years suddenly started to squirt them out last year, then the publics' resentment and loathing for you is your penance for bringing to life a sonic, ear splitting bomb in a stroller.

Thanks, you worthless cunt.

This is what I fear the most, in having children someday. I do not want to become the person who no longer gives a shit about whether or not their child is jumping up and down on public furniture or choking to death on a toy from a happy meal. I know my personality, and when I get completely frustrated with an individual, where I can no longer see a potential for change in attitude or behavior, I no longer give a shit about them. If you want to be a little asshole in public, go ahead son, that shit is on you. Fuck it.

My roommate is a prime example of this; I've done everything humanly possible to help him meet girls. I've both torn down and boosted his ego. I took him shopping for outfits, I've literally walked girls, gorgeous young women, to him and introduced them. I've given him pointers, pick up lines, and observational critiques... and yet he still refuses to change his attitude or traits. He assumes that something will just come along and take care of it for him.

Your child is exactly like my roommate - your child is needy and requires someone to follow behind him or her and close cupboard doors after them, wipe their asses, and tell them that their special and unique and no one is exactly like them. Bullshit. Your snot nosed little bastard or bitch, with their Bob the Builder over alls or pink Barbie tiara respectively is just another douchebag in the making. In fifteen years, it's likely that they will kill someone in a drunk driving accident, or fail out of college or go on welfare. They will neglect to pay their bills and hit their wives or husbands.

They'll be despondent and unappreciative to life's little things, and we'll all have you to thank, you cheap remorseless cocksucking uncaring piss-poor lay of a parent. Your genitalia should be revoked, you careless cad.

God help you, should I ever run into you and your brood ever again, because I will probably slit all your throats, systematically, in a way that I have yet to figure out, but give me some time and I will come up with the most psychologically damaging plan I can think of.

Trust me.

RIP DAFT

It all started about a month ago, really... the end of June. I had just gotten back from my trip to Laconia when my bike started to have problems.

It was run of the mill-type shit: I'd be cruising along and all of a sudden the RPMs would just drop out. I'd be doing about 70 mph at 6000 RPM and I'd go down to zero, nothing on the throttle, the needle on the tact wouldn't so much as shudder.

So I'd pull to the side of the road and check everything out. It would turn over hard, and I'd have to wait a while before it'd even start at all. So there I'd be, waiting on the side of the road for my bike to make up it's mind if it was going to start or not. It was dangerous and frustrating.

Over time (the span of about a week) the problem seemed to get worse. Added to the fact that I also dropped the bike in the parking lot after I slipped on a patch of sand while backing it, I really couldn't ride at all. It was enough to make me want to take a hammer to the damn thing and beat it until either it or I was broken.

The last straw, really, came about a week ago, when I was trying to limp the bike home from work, some 50 miles away, when it just died at the halfway point. I had to call for a tow, because the bike simply would not move another inch and when I was told that it'd be at least a two hour wait for the right guy to show up with the right equipment (in all actuality, when the guy did show up, he didn't bring the right shit anyway) I did what any good biker would do, and pushed the bike under the shade of a big tree, fold his jacket up under his ass, lean back against the bike and take a nap.

Once I got the bike to the shop, they said they'd take a good look at it. I described the problem as best I could in my layman language, and they told me they'd get it taken care of. One hundred and forty dollars and an oil change later, I pick up the bike only to have it do the exact same thing to me as it did before. Consider the camel's back to be broken.

So I brought it back that same day and complained that I was being charged for basically nothing. The guy behind the counter shrugged sheepishly and said "well, we ran it all day yesterday, it ran fine..."

"Did you 'run' it, or 'ride' it... there's a difference," I said back to him, still clutching my helmet, drenched in sweat from my kevlar jacket and jeans.

"Ran it," was the response.

So the bike's been sitting in the shop for a week, and I finally get a call on it. They tell me that the bike's currently in pieces, and it's going to need a 1500 dollar part if it ever hopes to see the road ever again.

What the fuck. Seriously. I only owe like 2500 on this goddamn thing. I bought it to SAVE me money, not become a fucking money pit.

I tell him on the phone not to bother with ordering the part. Just put the bike back together and I'll come by and pick it up. For the labor, I owe 600 dollars. All for him riding the bike down the road, tearing it apart, and putting it back together. Six hundred dollars.

The guy I bought it from told me he took exceptional care of it, did all the maintenance himself and it was in great condition, given the mileage. I should've been more dubious of the purchase when I thought I was getting a great deal.

So now the plan is to float the bike back to Maine, trade it in for either a new model (I do have my eye on a BMW K 1200 S....) or something that's certified pre-owned. Either way, I'm dealing with a dealership from now on.

This scar from this burn will never fade.

It Doesn't Say "Stop" Fucktard.

Jim's had a busy week at work, so his posts have been thin at best. We on his editorial staff forgive him. I mean, the less he writes, the less we have to run around fact checking, and the less legal has to do, period.

Anyway, enjoy his rant. -ed.

I hate driving in this ridiculous state.

If you've grown up in New England, outside of Massachusetts, you'd freely associate terrible driving with any car with Mass plates. You see those white and red tags anywhere, even in-state, and you know that there's likely an asshole behind the wheel.

First before I go any further, let me state for the record that I'm a horrible driver. It's because I think every time I get into traffic I'm manauvering around the track at Darlington International Speedway. I tailgate, I don't use my signals, I speed, I make lane changes at the last second. I freely admit to doing these things.

What makes me a hypocrit to a certain extent is that people in this goddamn state do not know how to YIELD. What compounds this fact is that every ten feet on this fucking Hook, there's a fucking rotary.

Let me play out the scene as it typically unfolds in front of me: I'll be driving home from work along this one particular stretch of highway, and I'll be approaching this big rotary. There will be about five cars ahead of me, and I'll look towards the left, where traffic on the rotary should be coming from.

But there's no traffic. Nothing. Maybe a lonely fucking tumbleweed will be blowing across the road, but that it. It looks like some post-apocalyptic waste land.

And yet, I see break lights. I see a shit ton of red lights, lighting up, and the guy out front of everyone, with his MA tags, has come to a complete hault.

IT'S A FUCKING YIELD! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?! IT SURE AS HELL DOESN'T MEAN STOP, BECAUSE IF YOU WERE TO STOP, THERE'D BE A FUCKING STOP SIGN, YOU INFECTED DICK!

So naturally, everyone slams on the breaks and it causes a back up in traffic. It's enough to make me want to go down to the zoo, kidnap a monkey, crack open it's skull, scoop out it's brains with a melonballer, and then proceed to poop into the skull cavity.

The way a rotary is supposed to work is that everyone just... goes. You just enter traffic seamlessly, and then leave traffic when you get to your little exit. You leave, someone else gets on. Granted, this isn't always the case, because large volumes of traffic can hinder the easy off and on of a rotary, but when there's zero traffic, you should just GO.

I see this as a problem too with highway on ramps in this state. Granted, they're ridiculously curved (like my cock) so seeing on-coming traffic is a little tricky, but coming to a complete stop at the yield sign at the end of the ramp is dangerous.

I'm going to be coming in behind you at about 65 mph, my cell phone in my one hand, a Dunk's ice coffee in the other, screaming at my roommate who for the 18th time this month has forgotten to do his share of the dishes, all while getting blown by my girlfriend to a soundtrack consisting of nothing by 80's hair metal, turned up to 11. I'm not expecting you to be sitting there, meagerly waiting your turn to join the fucking circus that is driving in Massachusetts, I'm going to be a Tomahawk Missel and your back end is going to be some Insurgent's asshole.

Just get out there, that's what I do. I come screaming around the corner at a high rate of speed and just say "fuck it." They have breaks, and it's a yield. Granted, I'm supposed to be giving way, but there's nothing there saying I'm to come to a complete stop- as far as I understand traffic laws. And I was a cop.

I'll Take A Hot Cup Of Kharma, With Skim And Light Foam...

Honestly, when your business charges 4.00 USD for a cup of fucking coffee, no matter how fancy your despondent 19 year old employee behind the counter makes it, you're business is in line to get whacked.

Earlier last week, the (vastly inferrior, in my humblest of opinions) coffee chain Starbucks announced that for the first time in the company's history, it was going to close some of it's locations, six hundred to be exact. These closings mean that now Manhattanites will be forced to wait in line for a double mocha vanilla latte for approximately two minutes longer.

If you couldn't tell yet, I have zero fucking sympathy for the Seattle-based coffee chain. With the on-set of a recession, gas prices hovering around what some snobbish prick would pay for a cup of hi-test coffee, and the country continuing to spin around the bottom of the toilet bowl, any one could plainly see that Starbucks was fucking itself in it's Colombian-imported asshole.

According to NYT Business editor Brad Stone, alot of Starbucks' trouble stemmed from piss poor real estate decisions. Apparently, the folks at the helm of the good ship Starbucks thought it'd be a good idea to put locations within spitting distance of each other. You know, just in case the five minute waiting line was too long at one store, you could literally walk across the street to the other location, and wait five minutes over there.

I know this for a fact because I used to go to school in Manhattan's Clinton district, what used to be known as Hell's Kitchen. I would get off the subway at 57th and 7th (Q, R, N, W lines), and hoof it three blocks west and two blocks north. In that span of time, which was usually a fifteen minute walk, I would see no less than five fucking Starbucks. Two more if you counted the two inside the Time Warner building (one actual store on the ground level, another inside the Barnes and Nobles on the third floor.)

Coincidently, this is the trend that Starbucks' Board of Directors wanted to take across the country. According to Stone's article, Starbucks planned to have 1000 unit locations in the state of Florida alone. One thousand fucking Starbucks. Are you serious?!

I'm from a small town in Southern Maine, population hovering around 20K annually. I can think of three Starbucks within five minutes of each other back home. Christ.

So The New York Times' Stone thinks it's the location that drove Starbucks to kill 600 of it's own stores. It's not, though it could be seen as circumstantial evidence that would lead one to believe so. No, it's the fact that people, even the ridiculous Upper East Siders, in their lavish 39th floor 9000.00 USD a month apartments in Manhattan can no longer reasonably spend the amount of money they once were on something as frivilous as coffee. Not when you can go to any deli or sandwich shop or little cart parked on the sidewalk next to a newsstand, and get a cup of regular-ass coffee for a dollar.

All you're paying for at Starbucks is the status symbol. The ability to walk around with a cup in your hand, in a little gay sleeve, that says "hey, I can afford to drop 5 dollars on this cup of bland, watery coffee with some fucking milk foam on it." That's all. In the heirarchy of fucking coffee chains, Starbucks is the fucking lowest. It really is, as far as taste, price, employees, everything; if I had a score card for every commercial chain coffee joint I'd ever frequented, Starbucks would be dead last in all catagories.

You know, Starbucks does serve just a regular cup of coffee for about a dollar, maybe a little more. It sucks. And when you order it, as in "can I just have a plain-ass cup of coffee please?" You get a funny look from the cunt behind the register, a completely filled cup of black shit, and a finger pointing to where the cream and sugar is.

How the fuck am I supposed to work with this shit, Gretchen? You do realize that if I try to add creamer to this ... giant cup of hot blackness, I'm going to spill it all over the place, right?

And it's a horrible, terrible, burnt-to-shit French Roast.

I was subject to Starbucks for the three years I lived in NYC. For some reason, they have about a million Starbucks (also, strangely - just about a third of the people I met while living in NYC worked, or had worked for a Starbucks... weird) in the city, but only four Dunkin Donuts. So when I was pressed for coffee (and I drank a lot more of it then than I do now for some reason) and I coudn't find a small diner or deli, I had to go to Starbucks.

And while waiting in line, I'd sooner be driving a rusty nail through my cheek, to pin my tongue to my opposite cheek.

And you have these people, with their ridiculously long orders to the robot-like kid behind the counter. Some trendy bitch in a fur coat and gloves sounding off what seems like a grocery list than a coffee order:

"I'll take a decaff, skim-only, double foamed, chocolate and vanilla latte with a twist of lemon and a little bit of cinnamon. Oh, a little whip creme too!"

I understand now, why NYC has such heavy restrictions on firearms.

Back to the point at hand though, Starbucks shot itself in the foot by trying too hard. Literally like Britany Spears, Starbucks pushed itself to the point of actual implosion, caving under the weight of it's own celebrity. One could see the backlash from a mile away. How long did you think stupid Americans were going to continue to try to impress each other with cardboard cups?

How long were we going to pretend the emperor wasn't really naked and the coffee really didn't suck?

My Roommate Doesn't Listen

I'm sunburnt, so that makes me cranky, which is exactly the catalyst I need to write about my idiot roommate.

For the first few months we've been living together, I've been really trying to help him score. And by "score", I mean just talk to a member of the opposite sex. And by "talk to a member of the opposite sex", I mean, be able to approach a woman without one of the following happening:

-Him freezing up.

-Him coming across crazy/creepy.

-Him sexually assaulting someone.

I've been successful and not successful at the same time. Successfully he hasn't sexually assaulted anyone, but he hasn't even so much been able to approach anyone either. Numerous times he's made mention in the living room he's going to go down to the local dance club only to drive there, sit in his truck looking at the people going inside, and then turning around and coming home. When he comes home he says "you should've seen the girls going in!" which will prompt me to say "did you TALK to any of them?" and he'll say "No."

Today, as I was attempting to rearrange my room, he walks in with a cup of Cherry Garcia and starts in on this gem:

"So I went to Barnes and Nobles today and I started to flip through some of the like ... 'Relationships for Dummies' books and stuff. I think I figured out what my problem is," and I stop making my bed and turn and look at him.

"And what did you figure out?" Fooling myself into thinking that he's about to reveal something utterly Earth shattering about his psyche or inner mental workings.

"I just lack confidence..."

Now, I've only been telling him this for MONTHS. Ever since I met this kid, he's the least confident person I've encountered. I've told him repeatedly that he just needs more confidence, that all his problems root out at the fact he isn't comfortable in his own skin. I've done everything I can to help boost his confidence, from giving him frequent compliments about his strengths (he's genuinely funny -albeit a little crazy- good looking, tall, and when he calms down a little bit, he has a very engaging personality) and pushing him to expand the limits of his comfort zone by putting him into ever increasingly uncomfortable situations (such as bringing girls over to him or dragging him to different places/people/events and making him look like an ass, all in an effort for him to get over himself.).

His problem has always been this lack of confidence, which is upheld by some sort of standard that he's supposed to be this cool character. If I could break him of this line of thinking, he'd instantly become more comfortable with himself.

If I can let me ego talk for a second, I think he wants to be me, or at least model himself an avatar that's like me. He always sees me being a cool customer, etc. But the fact of the matter is, I'm not cool, I'm not comfortable in my own skin, I'm highly self conscience with a lot of insecurities. The difference between he and I is I've learned how to hide those negatives or turn them into positives. He wears his insecurities like a Cosby Sweater.

It took me YEARS to develop some sort of confidence. So I don't expect him to have a metamorphosis overnight, but I at least expect him to try.

And seriously, what's sadder than a guy going to the movies and dinner by himself all the time in order to "meet people." HELLO ASSHOLE! YOU CAN'T MEET PEOPLE WHEN YOU WON'T EVEN TALK TO THEM!

I liken him to a novice ice skater, who is out on the ice for the first time. They want to do everything they can to stay upright, for fear of falling. All they need to do is fall on their ass one time to see that falling on your ass doesn't hurt, it's just a little embarrassing. And even then, 9 times out of ten, someone will be there to help pick you up, because we've all experienced falling on our asses, and we all know what it's like. He is not special. None of us are.

What my toe-headed roommate needs to do is fall on his ass, hard. Then he can skate all day.

So when he told me that he read a book and self diagnosed himself as a self-conscience social misfit I nearly lost my shit. I spiked my pillow cases and turned on him.

"Hello! I've only been telling you that for months! What the fuck dude! Is this thing on! Is this thing on!" And I mimic a microphone, blowing into it and tapping it on the head. He just stares. "Did you buy the book?"

"No..."

"Well thank god for that," I say and pick my pillow cases back up, sighing. "Why are you so afraid of getting hurt?"

"Because I don't want to get hurt?" He says back. I can understand his fears, but they're baseless. He's never been hurt in his life. He's forever a flincher, the kind of guy who will always flinch back when he's scared or tense or nervous. He needs to unclench his fucking ass, and start hearing what I have to say to him.

God Is My Co-Pilot (He Rides On My License Plate!)

For the life of me I couldn't tell you why I was watching FOX News last night when a story about how Florida wanted to sell to it's drivers, a religious license plate that can be registered to your car.

The show featured some obnoxious ultra-conservative spawn of Anne Coulter-twat who was (of course) in favor of the license plate, and a Reverend of the Humanists Church, who was against. As hard as he tried, the reverend was constantly cut off by the show's host, who kept repeating "c'mon, is it that bad, really Rev.?"

I could easily launch into a tirade about how ridiculous FOX News is, but I won't. Instead, I'll talk about the need for seperation between Church and State.

And to answer the blonde Nazi's question, yeah, it's really that bad. I mean, look:

Real subtle Florida.

I mean, my problem is two-fold; on one hand you have this whole, exclusivity to the license plate itself. It's one thing to be religious, but there are hundreds of religions out there, practiced by millions of people. I'm sure there's plenty of dumb-fuck Christian Floridians who would love to add this to their rotting Dodge Daytonas and Chevy Cameros, to show off to all their neighbors that they peel rubber for Jesus, but what about Jews, Muslims, or whatever the hell Chinese people worship?

I mean, not everyone in the world is a fan of NASCAR, you know?

Part two of my rant is that this is in blantant disregard for Church/State seperation. The woman on the show, who I believe to be a robot fueled by Bill O'Rielly's sweat, was like "I think the framers of the Constitution wouldn't mind this at all, I think they'd be for it!"

Bitch, have you ever taken a Con-Law class? Highly doubtful. Why? Because it is against the Constitution of the United States for any state or government enitity to endorse one sole (soul?) religion. And by the looks of things, Florida is all but short of putting "He Died For You!" on the bottom of the plate.

And what about the Aetheist? Are we going to subject these heathens to being stuck in traffic behind some asshole with this plate, silently cursing under his breath as he loads rounds into the magazine of his 9mm?

What about the Witches?! You may become cursed by some sort of Earth Spell should you drive your beat up scratched to hell VW around town with a Jesus plate.

You know, there's a rich Hatian culture in Florida... where's the Voodoo plate?

And the Nihilists! They don't even believe the license plate exists!

Do you know why states put out these speciality plates? It's so the state can earn funds from the people who are buying that particular plate. As far as I know, the State of Maine has like, 8 different plates you can choose from, from Yellow Ribbon plates to University of Maine plates to Abnaki Tribe plates, and so on. Every one of those plates is a certain dollar extra amount every time you register your vehicle for the year. And that money goes to the state.

So basically, The State of Florida is cashing in on Religion. I don't know who I'm more disgusted in; The State of Florida for cashing in on people's beliefs, or the people themselves, who'd go out of their way to spend their money on religion outside of church collections, red cans manned by a bell ringing Santa or Oakie-Fare Tent Revivalists.

Goddamnit.

An Ode To Living Recklessly

I'm a shitbird.

A total dickhead, scumbag, perverted shit-stain on society.

I love to drive drunk with very little regard for other drivers. Fuck'em: the car load full of kids or the soccer team, or the prom dates.

I love to drink too much and pass out at people's houses whom I don't know.

I love to correct people's grammar in public, with only the most condescending tone.

I drive like an asshole (when I'm not drunk), I seldom wear my seat belt, never use my signals, and expect everyone else around me to abide by the same traffic laws I disregard. I speed and swerve and drive with my windows down in all types of weather.

I like to keep a loaded gun on my person at all times and often pick fights with people I know could kick my ass. I don't give a shit, I have a gun.

I like to fuck without a condom on. I almost never pull out, and if I do, it's to cum on the girl's face or tits. I never hang around after, I just get up and leave.

I bet on sports when I don't have the money. I do the same thing with my bills; I pay my bills with checks that I know will bounce. Same goes for my rent.

I vote Republican in the 21st century.

I sneer at children and wolf whistle at their moms. I grab my crotch in line at the grocery store.

I play with knives, especially when I've been drinking.

I may or may not have children someplace else in the country.

I tell fat women they're fat. To their boyfriend's faces.

I drink Tecate and eat microwave burritos at 3 am on Monday nights.

I wake up hung over for work at 0630 in the morning, when I have to be in the office at 0715. I don't call ahead and I don't give a shit.

I throw things.

I make my roommate do my dishes and scrub my shitty toilet.

I plug in my amp and play horrible guitar at all hours. When the neighbors show up to complain I tell them to go fuck themselves while blowing pot smoke into their faces. When they inevitably send the cops over, I pretend I'm a disabled war vet.

I rent movies and don't watch them. Weeks go by and when the store calls about their movies, I tell them that I just moved into the address and have no idea what they're talking about.

I sleep on park benches. I clean my gun on park benches.

I stroll by high schools and ask the girls walking on the side walk what grade they're in.

I play pool in bars and don't pay for the games. I let my friends buy my drinks for me and never pay for a round.

I demand a buy-back from the bartender. When he cuts me off, I go outside and slash all the tires in the parking lot, hoping I got his.

I eat like shit. Wait, let me rephrase that... I eat shit. My arteries are so clogged with shit that my insides look like an LA Freeway. My doctors yell at me, my girlfriend yells at me, and I don't care. If it tastes good, I'm eating it, whether it's deep fried, bathed in butter or beer battered, I'm going to ingest it until my heart gives out under me. Fuck it.

I smoke cigarettes but I never buy my own pack. I'm that asshole who's hanging outside of the bar bumming smokes off everyone. I never apologize for it either.

I'm inside the bar smoking.

I'm your co-worker who talks too loudly on the phone and ignores your emails.

I'm the dickhead on Facebook who won't return your Friend Request.

I listen to shitty music loudly and at the same time tell you you have no taste in music.

I'm at a rock concert feeling your girlfriend's ass.

I'm doing hits of extacy around black guys and telling them "thanks for not kicking my white ass"

I'm an asshole, a dick, and a douche bag. I'm your neighbor, your brother, your father and your son. I'm your boss and your employee.

I'm You.

Best Of: August 2007

Jim originally posted this back in August of 07, regarding Comedy Central's usage of "comedian" Carlos Mencia to be the flagship for their network since Dave Chappelle went all ...Mariah Carey-crazy and bolted for fucking.... Africa.

"Africa-Africa?"

"...Africa-Africa."

Anyway, enjoy. -ed.

"An Open Letter to Comedy Central: re: Carlos Mencia"

Dear Comedy Central/Viacom,

"The Mind of Mencia" has been airing on your network for almost two full years, and since has spawned something like four or five seasons since its inception. I'm writing you today to ask you to please cease and desist with this tripe.

I understand how it happened: Chappelle went Mariah Carey-Crazy, jumped the first jet to Africa and left you suits holding the bag in regards to a culturally relevant, hilarious 22 minute television programme starring an influential minority. You saw that you needed to plug the leak in the dyke as fast as possible, so you removed your thumb from your ass and jammed it as hard as you could into the widening gap.

No one blames you.

So you thought to yourselves that you'd find another "controversial" minority comedian who probably had some sketch comedy ideas kicking around, and Carlos Mencia seemed to fit the bill at that time. And again, no one blames your decision on this; Mr. Mencia at that time was relatively still underground but a fast rising star. He was "The Punisher of Comedy" and you guys wanted to bet it all, thinking you should snag him up before ABC gives him a sitcom ala George Lopez.

So you brought in Mr. Mencia and said "look Carlos, we love what you do, and we want to bring you to a wider audience. We want 'Carlos Mencia' to be a household name." And I'm sure he was on board for this. You gave him some creative licensing control, let him do his own writing, developing, etc. But what you didn't count on was that Carlos Mencia is a one-trick pony at best.

I've watched a number of episodes of "Mind of Mencia" and I find the title of the programme to be both ironic and telling. "Mind of Mencia" is twenty-two minutes of mindless jabbering and soap-boxing. The diminutive host dresses as if he shops at Baby Gap, with his "youthfully hip" t shirts and hoodies. It seems that he takes great pains to get his jokes across to the masses, and I'm sure he's under some oversight from Standards and Practices to keep things somewhat tasteful, even though the show is rated TVMA. But we know the big black block of a rating that pops up at the beginning of the show is a bait and switch tactic. There's nothing very adult about his humour at all.

Let me break down how I view the show in its entirety: There might be a half-hearted sketch at the show's opening depicting something overtly racist. Maybe Mr. Mencia has donned "white-face" make up and is acting like some pompous politician, or maybe he's donned "black-face" make up and is acting like some overzealous rapper. Either way he hops around his sketch like a wounded Ashlee Simpson at a live recording of Saturday Night Live.

Next there will be the typical splash graphic opening that I suppose is "edgy" and "urban" for the RedBull swilling kids who are just getting home from their jobs at Domino's Pizza or who are too stoned to change the channel after watching the same South Park you've been airing since May. Then Mr. Mencia will make his first appearance.

So he comes out holding a microphone, even though he's wearing a lapel mic. Mr. Mencia will then go on roughly a four minute mini-monologue about something about living in LA, or being a "beaner" or whatever happens to be the topic of the day. He tries very hard during this part of his show to really reach out to the television audience to get his socially charged point across. But again, he's falling short. He laces what could easily be a thoughtful speech with "duh-duh-duuhs" and mindless yelling. And then Mr. Mencia will shepard a D List level comedian who might really need the exposure on a nationally televised basic cable tv show, out on to his stage and let them rant, while he forces himself to laugh at weak attempts at humor. The whole thing is staged and very fake. For a viewer to convince themselves otherwise of the fact would be doing a disservice.

Then there's a commercial break, and when the show comes back, we the viewer are typically treated to a "man on the street" type waste of seven minutes, where Mr. Mencia and what I presume to be a small film crew, scour the streets of LA talking to tourists. The subject matter is usually something race driven, because the bulk of Mr. Mencia's schtick is racially motivated.

For instance, Mr. Mencia will ask a white person to immitate a black person, or have a black person immitate a jewish person, or have a hispanic act like their really mad at their boyfriend and hit him over the head with a chanchla... or sandle in English. He may or may not incorporate the use of a dwarf or his mentally handicapped brother Joseph in this portion of the show.

We go to break, and come back.

The last vignette is usually an in-studio sketch with a remarkably elaborate setting. I do have to give the set designers they're due in that regards. I wish I had more nice things to say about the show other than that, but I will give credit where credit is due.

On the subject of in-studio, how do you sell tickets or ... fill the seats of this set? I find it very hard to imagine people lining up to get into this show, but then again, the collective intelligence of Americans is somewhere between Forest Gump and Peter Griffen.

Anyway, so this last sketch will exhibit a number of horrible actors parading on to the set playing the role of despondant teenagers who are in need, apparently, of an attitude adjustment from Mr. Mencia. Mr. Mencia will usually take the role of some sort of authoritarian and the template is always the same: You'll have a depressed white "emo kid" who Mr. Mencia will tell "you're white, you have nothing to be depressed about!" a gay asian "you're gay, but it's ok, you like to do nails!" a butch lesbian "you should go try out for the Olympics... the Male Olympics!" a dumb blond "thank god you've got titties!" And finally a stereotypical black "gangsta" who Mr. Mencia will tell "you're homeboys won't always get your back when you go to jail, but he will!" and cue an obviously homosexual character who will come out and chase the character around the set and that's a wrap.

It's all very analgesic, and yawn inducing.

Again, suits, I appriciate the bind you were all in when you lost the greatest star to Comedy Central since Jon Stewart. But I urge you, on behalf of lovers of intellectual and thought-provoking comedy, please cancel "Mind of Mencia." I'm sure you could fill the empty time slot with another episode of South Park or Scrubs, or MadTv, or Drawn Together. All these shows are genius examples of greatly inspired writing and production.

Or, ... or you could stay the course and keep contributing to the "dumbing down" of America. ...But do you really want to be responsible for another Republican president? ...Think about it.

Thanks for your time,
J.

PS: And while we're at it. Let's hit the brakes on anything "Blue Collar" or with Larry The Cable Guy involved in it.

New Short Fiction: The Lies We Tell, Part 3 (Conclusion)

You create, usually, more problems when you hire another killer to kill a hired killer.

I was convalescing in my hotel room; I was going to give myself half a week to lick my wounds before I would try to fly back across the Atlantic in my cut up condition. I wasn’t as bad as I thought I was initially. There was a lot of blood of course, but most of the wounds were superficial at best. I had one nasty gash from my left middle rib down to just short of my hip. I stitched it as best I could, using the expensive whiskey in the duty-free mini-bar as an anti-septic and thread and needle from a tailoring kit I purchased in the gift shop in the lobby.

It was going to scar nastily but it beat an infection.

I was waiting on a steak from room service and a knock came at the door. I glanced at the little brass alarm clock at the side of the bed and thought to myself that room service was rather quick this evening. I stared long and hard at the door when again there was a knocking.

Slow to my feet I was up and by the door with a slight hobble. My body was very achy and I was dehydrating quickly. I cleared my throat, leaned against the jam, away from the center of the door and called out.

“Who is it?”

“Room service, with your steak,” came a heavily accented Jamaican voice. I peered through the peephole and saw a rather slow looking Jamaican standing, dressed in a bellhop’s uniform of red and gold, complete with the cylindrical-style hat on top of his waist-long dreadlocks. A tiny elastic held it in place, slightly askew.

I opened the door slowly and gave the waiter a once over. I stepped back from the door, closed it, unlatched the chain and beckoned him in. He wheeled in a sliver cart with a silver serving tray.
***

The tray was high polished silver that reflected everything in the room, even the cold concentrated stare of the Jamaican pushing it. Jimmy caught him sizing him up, and knew what the deal was just as the Jamaican struck.

The Jamaican threw the top of the silver platter at Jimmy and caused the killer to put his hands up defensively. Under the tray sat a silenced H&K USP 9mm which the dreadlocked killer picked up and fired twice.

Jimmy knew just then that this hired killer sent to do him in was not of the same skill set as he. The bullets went wild in the frantic may-lay, even at close range. Jimmy closed in on the Jamaican as he was trained to do when confronted with an assailant with a pistol and wrestled him to the floor.

The two killers grappled on the floor, Jimmy’s body slick with sweat as he felt his stitches popping from his side. He grunted and grimaced as the Jamaican started to throw punches at Jimmy’s head with his free hand. As soon as he took his hand off the gun, Jimmy knew the Jamaican was going to die.

Jimmy leaned forward and bit hard into the dark hand holding the gun. Bit so hard that blood gushed into his mouth, causing the Jamaican to curse in his native tongue. So hard that Jimmy felt a hunk of flesh in his cheek and when he turned to spit it out, he saw bone on the hand he took it from.

The gun came loose and Jimmy pointed it at his assassin. The Jamaican scrambled to his feet to break out from the room, but Jimmy took steady aim, in spite of everything and squeezed once. The sharp whip of the muffled muzzle cut the air and thudded in his hand, the Jamaican spinning by the door and crashing into it with a bang that was louder than the report from the pistol. There was a rather large splotch of blood on the wall next to him.

It wasn’t a kill shot, he merely grazed him. Jimmy forced himself up on his left elbow and felt a sear of pain shoot up his side. He cursed and bit into his lip. He reached to the top of his bed and pulled himself up by the covers. His hand was a bloody mit and it smeared over everything. He got to his feet, unbalanced and then sat on the bed panting.

He looked down at the Jamaican squirming at the door, plaintively trying to reach the knob with his own bloody hoof. He’d touch it and it’d slip free, leaving thin streaks of red down the white door. The killer, with his long black ropes of thick natty hair was mumbling under his breath, bent backwards against the door, his legs lifeless and sprawled out behind him. From his left side there was a slow spreading patch of darkness.

Jimmy caught his breath and tried again to stand up. He wavered a bit and there was another rush of pain, but he was a little better off and was able to limp over to the slow-to-expire killer who was sent to squash him. With his foot, he nudged him until he flipped on to his back and sat against the door, looking up and holding his guts.

The shot had been slightly better than he expected. The bullet went in at the Jamaican’s left side, in the fleshly ‘spare tire’ area, but exited at about just above the naval. A decent backwards gut shot.

“Bombaclot ya shire ma man,” the Jamaican panted up at Jimmy. Jimmy had no clue what that meant but figured he was saying something about being shot or he was in pain or something. He flashed back momentarily to Iraq. There had been a bombing in a town market and his unit had been the first to respond. When he climbed out of his Humvee, there had been a man at his feet gasping for air like a fish, as the Jamaican was now.

At first it seemed like there was nothing wrong with this guy; he was just in shock. There was no blood, no torn clothing, no markings or singes or anything. Jimmy had wondered what this guy’s deal was until he glanced down and saw that from his waist and below, there was nothing there. He would’ve been actually standing on the poor son of a bitch’s dick, had he one left in tact.

The flashback ended in an instant and he was again in his London hotel room with quite a large mess on his hands. The Jamaican was still babbling about Babylon, or something, gasping for air in deeper and deeper gulps as Jimmy assumed that his lungs were slowly filling with bile and blood from his torn to shreds anatomy. That’s what he loved about the 9mm; when they impacted soft tissue they shred apart (similar in a sense to the 5.56 NATO), becoming razor sharp fragments inside whatever they hit. So in theory, a single bullet hole into some unlucky dreadlocked bastard-murderer would cause insurmountable damage to his insides.

Jimmy had to act fast if he wanted to learn anything from this amateur. He stood over the crumpled, nearly lifeless body of his latest victim and stared down into his eyes. He observed how dry the lips were and how white and big his eyes were. It made him blink and lick his own lips in response.

“Who sent you,” Jimmy started.

“Damn you, clownboy, no rasta talka that nonsense inna this house!” He wailed.

“What?”

“Rudeboy no tell!” Jimmy understood that -sort of- and took it as a sign of non compliance. He lifted one foot and grabbed on to the door frame for balance. He then pressed down on the seeping wound in the middle of his Jamaican counterpart.

“AHHH, bombaclot on yor porn one head, sar!” The Jamaican shouted. Luckily, Jimmy thought, in these swankier hotel rooms, the rooms were usually sound insulated. He pressed harder, causing the big white eyes of his victim to nearly pop out of his head.

“Give me a name,” Jimmy said after the rasta cooled out. He panted for a long while, probably thinking in his head if it was at all worth protecting whoever he was going to protect. He was dying; he was actually already dead, just Death was late showing up this time around. He looked up at the ceiling and then to Jimmy.

“No name, justa clownboy like you…”

“Russian?”

“No, like you, mon.”

“American?”

“That’s ire,” Jimmy let that sink in. He let off the stomach and sat back on the bed. The rasta panted and rolled over on to his good side.

“What’d he look like?” The rasta closed his eyes and moved his mouth, but nothing came out. He grunted, shit himself and coughed up a little blood. He was starting to drown on his own fluids. “Quickly, what’d he look like?!” Jimmy tried to stand but found it too difficult. The Jamaican let out a long spit string of blood from his mouth and slumped on the floor.

He no longer moved.
***

I got some rest, despite that there was a dead body in my room. It wasn’t the first time I took a nap next to a dead guy. When I was in Iraq we were pinned down by Insurgents outside of Ramala for 17 hours. I ended up dozing for about an hour, and when I woke up, I realized the pack I was using for a pillow was still attached to one of my dead squad members.

I was very cautious leaving the hotel, making sure to take the pistol with me under a long coat I had bought when I had come back from the barber shop. The coat was dark and let me bleed without drawing too much unneeded attention to myself. I re stitched my side, took a few shots of the expensive stuff in the mini bar and did my best stiff walk impression out into the cool wet London night.

A cab ride to the airport and a ticket home and a day later a cab’s pulling in front of my apartment, with me in it.

I’m pulling my suit bag out, limping a lot, dry-mouthed and jet lagged. All I wanted to do was crash into bed and avoid explaining anything to her.

I bought her a few nice things at the gift shop: A nice pen set, a t shirt, a fridge magnet, a tourist information book that I somehow got signed by David Beckham (long story.).

I struggle up the two flights of stairs and key into my apartment. The music’s on, typical. There’s a pizza box, open on the dining room table, next to which is a men’s French cuff shirt in black placed delicately on the back of a chair.

It’s not one of my shirts.

I stand by the pizza box, placing down my things, lifting the lid and pulling out a slice. It’s luke warm plain cheese. I take a bite and toss it back into the box.

I hear voices coming from my bedroom.

I walk. No wait, I stalk, back towards my bedroom, creeping on the balls of my feet. In spite of everything that’s happened in the last week, all the blood, all the flashbacks and all the dead bodies, it’s now that I notice how fast my heart’s racing. My head throbs and there’s a pang of pure adrenaline-fueled panic in my chest. Everything’s tighter, my face feels like it’s about to up and peel off. I take shallow breaths and blink with each step. I feel the sweat drip down into my stitched gash and it feels like someone’s raking rusty razors across my organs.

I push the door open and in the middle of my bed there’s my girlfriend and Casing.

It’s disgusting on so many different levels. He’s probably twice her age, lumpy, patches of hair here and there, still wearing his glasses on his fat glob of a head. Sweat glistening off his shiny face.

Conversely she’s sitting up, her jet black hair tangled but still looking beautiful. She doesn’t bother to cover herself so her perfect breasts simply sit in the open, for the public to bare witness to.

No one says a word for what feels like a decade. Whole trends in fashion and entire seasons of beloved television shows pass before there’s a solitary sound. And that sound that breaks the silence is the gurgling of Casing’s stomach.

“Gino’s Pizzeria is better,” I say from the door, leaning against it. My eyes feel like rocks, my jaw is set back and I’m fully locked on to the gross mass of old flesh laying on my girlfriend’s side of the bed. Her charm bracelet is on her night stand, next to him. The tv remote and a book she was reading is still there too. On my side, on my night stand is a set of motorcycle keys, a music magazine and a pocket knife.

She still hasn’t said anything, and she can’t even look at me. I walk into the room, slowly, sure in my steps, my eyes locked on both of them as they stew in their filth. I open up my night stand and take out my .380, the same one she made such a fuss about so long ago.

“Jimmy, don’t, stop!” She says at last. Her words, I put together in some sort of mix in my mind, where there’s no comma separating the don’t and the stop and it’s Casing’s name she’s calling. I nod once or twice to myself, level the pistol and fire once into her head.

Casing’s stunned, his hands up defectively, a streak of blood is across his face, on his glasses, on the sheets. He blubbers for a second and then regains his composure.

“Jimmy, it wasn’t supposed to be this way,” he starts.

I know,” I say, “I was supposed to be dead in London, right?” He takes his rose stained glasses off and looks down at his lap. “I’ll spell it out for you in case none of this has sunken in for you Casing: You sent me on a job which I wasn’t supposed to survive. And when I did, you sent some two-bit, half-wit jerk off with a high end pistol to snip the loose ends, right? Too bad I’m the best there ever was,” and Casing starts to cry. “You’re fucked.”

“Just get it over with,” he chokes out. I look down at her lifeless body and shed a tear. My lip quivers for a second, but then I get over myself.

“No, she didn’t suffer because I loved her. You, on the other hand,” and my pistol falls to my feet, and I reach back and pick up the pocket knife I left on the night stand, “you, you’re going to suffer.”
***

The police arrived about eight minutes after the first report of a gunshot was taken from a neighbor upstairs. The first arriving unit consisted of a rookie who was out of the academy for three months and had never worked a homicide before. His partner and FTO was a 12 year veteran.

When they both entered with second floor apartment, guns drawn - both started to puke. The rookie puked immediately down the front of his blouse, right in the middle of the crime scene. The vet managed to get to the landing before heaving over the side of the railing down to the lobby below. After two minutes of dry heaves, he managed to call for additional units and an ambulance.

Hardly A Non-Conformist

So I went to bed last night for a few hours, and in typical fashion I set the timer on my tv for about half an hour, and rolled over the other way to start drifting off to sleep.

Suddenly I was jerked out of my semi-conscience state when I overheard something that I knew couldn't be true.

It was an ad for McDonalds, where the dickhole on tv was like "I'm a non-conformist, I eat at McDonalds!"

....I find this direction in advertising very discomforting.

Ok, first off, where the hell does Mickey D's get off on playing the "non-conformity" card when they proudly advertise that they've served literally BILLIONS of people since their inseption into Main Stream Americana back in like, 1955?

Bitch, your great-grandfather has probably eaten a McDonald's fish sandwich, is what I'm saying.

Has "non-conformity" totally lost it's meaning in today's society? People are so demanding of a non-conformist state, to fight back and bite the hand that feeds them, that it's now spread into the most conformist medium of all, advertising?

The very idea behind advertising is to get as many people as possible to "conform" to one idea or product. This is how companies generate dollars so that the people who work for these companies can drive home in their expensive cars to their expensive houses and get 'luded up on expensive prescription drugs.

In other words, advertisers think we're all sheep. And for the most part, they're right.

Another great example of the non-conformity trend in advertisement is that AARP or ... fucking... whatever Dennis Hopper's shilling for lately. Here's this iconic symbol of perpetual non-conformity in the form of an actor who got his start being the ultimate non-conformist in the film "Easy Rider," telling wisened baby-boomers to conform to a special interest group so they can save on medicine and afternoon movie tickets. All the while there's some catchy 60's pop hit playing in the background, and footage of some graying old guy carrying a surf board across the beach. I can only imagine the numbers of achy-jointed retirees being like "hey, I still got what it takes, I can get out there and show the world I'm not done yet! I won't conform to these standards set upon me by society in general, half expectant of me to slowly and quietly die in my own feces stained boxer shorts with baked beans running down my chin in my favorite Laz-E-Boy! No! I'll give them what-for!"

You and everyone else, grampa.

I'm just tired of this game that advertisers want to play with Americans because they (by and large) think we're collectively dumb bovines being lead to the slaughter floor. McDonald's is probably the most culturally significant icon in America and for them to say their customers (myself included) are non-conformists (all like, 80 billion or whatever) is ludacris. This makes as much sense as them selling customer's fucking salads.

Just stop feedings us lines of shit (both literally and figuratively) and come out and say "hey, if it was good enough for four prior generations of obese Americans, it's good enough for you too," and I'll be happy. It's not like when I was living in NYC that I never saw some skinny hipster kid eating a Quarter Pounder with Cheese...

There is no such thing as a non-conformer anymore. Everyone conforms to the same ideas because there's no new ideas to be had. No one thinks for themselves anymore. We're spoon-fed opinions by different media sources and we align ourselves with which makes us feel more empowered.

The other night The Lady and I were out on my porch drinking scotch and talking politics, which was uncommon, but probably due to our mutual inebriation. She brought up the fact that people no longer have their own opinions and that we collectively do what we're told by whoever. Sadly she's right. People don't take the time to digest information anymore. We're literally traveling down the road to a place where we're told what to think.

I'm serious.

The solution to all of this is that we need to stop not conforming. If the powers that be are happy to let us think we're all special and unique individuals, they'll keep pandering to us as such. If we can prove to them that we're one cohesive body with our own opinions (conforming behind one original idea or belief) we're a harder stone to push, and maybe America can un-stick itself from the toilet it's been trapped on as it tries to finish digesting sixty years of Chicken McNuggets.

The Roommate and The Prostitute from Friendly's

"You eat like a soldier," The Lady says as she sits next to me at the counter of a homey diner in Orleans while I'm digging into a stack of pancakes. I keep my head down as I eat, shoveling food thoughtlessly into my gullet, chewing, sipping coffee, intent on my next delicious morsale, not taking the time to enjoy the one that's currently in my mouth.



I bring this up because we tend to go out to eat alot. It somewhat burns me up that I'll drop a hundred bucks on groceries at ... sigh... Shaw's, and then go drop another 50 on dinner with The Lady and The RM.

So this takes us to last night: We three are sitting at the local Friendly's at The RM's behest and being served by a reasonably attractive blonde. The Lady remarks about how attractive she is to the RM, who is turning red with each passing minute.

A long discussion is had about my RM's lack of balls. We, The Lady and I, keep provoking him to ask for her number and he's still acting like himself, not taking intiative - yet complaining about how he's going to go through life lonely and sad....

It makes for a very tiresome evening meal.

So fast foward to the end of the meal and the RM's all nervous... he asks us, me and The Lady, to step out and get a smoke and we do so. He then mans up and gets the digits from the waitress while forging my name on the receipt. He exits the Friendly's smiling ear to ear, and it seems like everything in the world is right for once.

So again, fast forward and I'm in bed right at that point where you're about to fall into a delightful slumber, when in busts my RM, panic-stricken.

"Dude, I texted that girl..." He says. We had given him explicitly strict orders not to make contact with her for at least the night.

"Why?" As I'm laying face down on my bed.

"Well she text me back," he manuavers around the question, "and told me to lose her number, because we didn't tip her!" I can hear the panic in his voice so I look up, half push up style.

"What? Why didn't you tip her?!" I'm somewhat angry... well agitated mostly, by this news and as well as being interupted as I'm close to sleeping. But importantly, I'm somewhat pissed at the fact that we didn't tip this waitress, because I'm very fond of tipping, and tipping well. So the idea of this waitress (she was a shitty waitress though, had a whole lot of attitude...) going without a tip got under my skin.

"I thought The Lady was leaving a cash tip!" What had happened was that we had discussed seperate bills and a cash tip during the meal, but I just said 'fuck it' and opted to pay for everyone on my card because it was easier. The Lady had taken out some cash to leave towards the tip but I told her to put it away. Hence all the confusion.

So at this point, the RM is up in arms and freaking out. I tell him, rather grumpily to forget about it, "if she's so into the money, then why would you be interested in her at all?" I say from my pillow. He closes my door and goes to bed.

...So I think....

Turns out, right after that, the RM takes off to an ATM, gets twenty bucks in cash, and with a note places it in an envelope and shoots back over to the Friendly's as it's closing. He manages to talk his way inside and confronts the waitress giving her the envelope.

"I threw it in her face," he goes on to tell me this morning, "like an OG would."

She text messages him back shortly there after apologizing for her gold-digger-like first impression and they set up a date for a movie.

Now, what hits a couple of key sour notes in this tale is that, 1) where did my roommate's balls suddenly come in, where he would march back into an closed establishment, and pull of this Jack Bauer-like stunt? Especially without witnesses. And then! And then! I check my bank balance this morning online and see that Friendly's took out 58 dollars from my checking account last night. ...I remember distinctly that the bill for the three of us was 49.00 even. So where did this extra 7 dollars come from?

Either the RM actually did leave a tip (a seven dollar tip seems about on point for what he'd leave) and this entire story is a farse, or the little prostitute took it upon herself to help herself to a tip. If that's the case I plan on filing a complaint with the Friendly's.

Allow me to go off on a brief tangent: Being that service industry folks make like 3.50 an hour, they depend on tips. I understand this, and my heart goes out to the hard working waiters and waitresses that literally slave for customers like me. That's why I try to over tip as often as possible, even when the service isn't what I'd consider up to par. That's the situation we had last night. The waitress, the RM's apparent new paramour was lifeless, sarcastic and unpleasant. I thought her waitressing sucked. She dropped plates in front of us, had very little enthusiasm when taking our orders and had zero personality. All that said, since she was taking care of three of us on one bill, I would've left her probably a ten or twelve dollar tip.

If the case is that she tipped herself, thinking we were cheapskates, she had no right. No tip or gratuity is considered a guarentee. You EARN a good tip, and you do so by being polite, friendly, a little outgoing, etc. I'm not asking her to adorn flair and sing happy birthday songs and stand on her fucking head, I'm just asking for decent service, maybe with a little less sarcasm/spit in my food.

Also, if she told the RM to lose her number, would it be conceivible that she would've deleted his as well? How would she have been able to text him as he was leaving?

So, what's it going to be in the end? I need to sit down and grill my RM about all of this and get down to brass tacks. If he tipped her out I need to know if his whole story is make-believe or not. If that's the case then I'll sit down with him and have a man-to-man about making shit up. If it turns out his side of the story is true, than I know of a local Friendly's that'll have a 'help wanted' sign posted in their front window, very soon.

Best Of: May 2006

This was my very first "unmailed letters" article (there'd go on to be about five installments, each getting angrier I think...) so I thought it'd be nice to show you guys what was pissing me off roughly two years ago.

Hope you enjoy!

Often times people say that if you have a problem with something, you should write a letter, but not mail it. It helps get all the anger out. Well, for the first time ever, exclusive to this blog, here are some of my more favorite Unmailed Letters....

To the white trash family that lives at the top of the street:

Good morning, crackers! It's your neighbor James, you might remember me from a few weeks ago when I came over to politely ask you to stop having the three of your nineteen kids that drive, to stop driving so fast up and down the street in their shitty cars? Do you remember that? Remember how I even identified myself as a Peace Officer, and we shook hands? You were shirtless at the time, and presumably barefoot as well. Your smaller children were scattered all over your makeshift property? They had dirty clothes and dirty faces? You smelled like burning marijuana?

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know how much I love being ignored! Even more so, I wanted to let you know how much I love the fact that you also ignore safety on a regular basis! I love how your property is littered with shitty cars, some running, some not. I love how you all decide to use our tiny street as your personal drag strip! I love hearing the shitty loud exhaust at all hours! I love how you keep me from maybe taking a 45 minute long nap by racing up and down the street all day. Also, that tinny whine from that mini bike you ride, which is illegally unregistered and illegally operated by an unlicensed individual, makes my ears bleed. So thank you for ruining some of my more favorite t shirts with a fad toy from two years ago that you just got off of lay-away.

Also, thank you so much for providing me with a real life episode of COPS twice weekly. Having Biddeford's Finest respond to your domestic issues at all hours, and screaming obscenities into the night air gives me a warm fuzzy feeling down in the base of my balls.

By the way, you're also very poor.

I hope that life finds you all well, with unscrubbed faces and unlaundered clothing. Also, the can of paint I plan on tossing on to that shitty primer gray VW Golf that keeps racing up and down the street is complimentary.

Bests..... James.

To my former upstairs Jewish neighbors in Queens, NY:

Shalom! I hope that whatever crazy Jewish holidays that have passed recently found you all well. I'm so sorry things didn't work out for us better... I was really looking forward to the man of the family letting himself into my apartment to turn down my appliances again. Nothing says "welcome to the neighborhood" like a creepy Jewish guy standing with muddy boots in my freshly washed kitchen floor, touching my property while I'm taking a piss.

I'm sorry that my work schedule was inconvenient for you and your family, and you had to report my landlord to the authorities, after less than a month, instead of just catching me while I was home and asking me to not play my tv/stereo/lady I was having sex with so loudly.

However I commend you on your ability to find a corrupt Russian landlord in a city that's only filled with them, and then reporting him to the City's Housing Board so that the only punishment that would be meeted out was me losing my home.

Anyway, I hope your small child grows up unathletic and greedy.

Mozel Tav! ...James.

To Howard Stern:

Howard... just a quick note to say that you're really not that funny. You're not god's gift to free speech. Just because you can get porn stars to fuck each other with modified power tools on your radio program only means that you were the first to put the idea in action. There are literally a million other people out there that had the same idea/s as you, but you only had the good fortune of getting on the air first.

Good luck with the satellite radio thing. It only downside is that your replacement was a post-rehab David Lee Roth, who is the only person on this entire planet who is more opinionated/bitchier than me.

Oh and I miss the awkward pauses on live radio early in the morning.

Baba-Booey.... James.

To Tv's Jack Bauer from FOX's '24':

You're awesome. Keep up the good work.

Man-crushing on you..... James.

To Olympian Bode Miller:

As if it wasn't already hard enough to be American in the world's eye, you come along and make it that much harder, you fucking choke artist.

Granted, the Winter Olympics in Torino were months ago, but you know, I just wanted to take an extra second here and tell you how much you suck. You suck harder than Howard Stern's show. You suck more than the Yankees, and they suck a whole lot.

All I can think of is the poor kid who worked his ass of, who wasn't born with the same talent as you, who missed the team cut off and was forced to be an alternate by maybe three seconds. He would've appreciated going to the Olympics, and he would've represented America proudly. Instead of going to night clubs all night, fucking ridiculously hot italian broads (the ones with the waxed mustaches), and presumably doing ice booze louges into the wee hours, he would've been at practice, and shit, maybe would've medaled. But no one will ever really know, will they?

So again, thanks for all the unnecessary hype. Thanks for affirming the idea in the international community that Americans are excessive consumers and have zero respect for age old cultural traditions, you fucking hack.

Next time you choke, I hope you die.... James.

To President Bush:

At the risk of having my door kicked in by federal agents (maybe... Jack Bauer? That'd be really hot actually...) I'll keep this short and thinly veiled... you're not doing a very good job sir.

I don't necessarily blame you, I mostly blame your administration. See, as a proud republican, you guys are making it awfully hard for me to stay along the party lines. You all are so super fucking conservative that you make the Nazi Party seem somewhat warm/friendly.

Everyone in your administration is on their own agendas, and quite frankly sir, you were somewhat under-qualified for this job you took on to begin with. When you first took office, we all thought that "hey, we're progressive! This will be a quick four year stint, and then we'll get back to having an actual president, not a funny go-betweener." The 9/11 happened and the shit hit the fan. We all turned towards the administration, with their figure piece, and collectively said "oh shit..."

We still are progressive though, ... we're the first country to elect someone who is clinically retarded to the office of President. Hey, we got a retard in before a black guy! NICE.

You're actions in Afghanistan were warranted, but then the whole Iraq thing happened. Your administration poured honey into your oversized ears and told you to lie to us, to coddle falsified reports about Weapons of Mass Destruction. Cuz I mean, basically, you're just the pretty face on the program. You're the picture of Mr. Clean on the bottle. You don't really do anything at all, except go to press junkets and do photo ops holding a giant turkey at Christmas for our troops overseas. You're a bastard, but the rest of your crew are even bigger bastards.

In closing sir, I'm still going to stay the course with the Republican Party, however, as a formerly staunch Republican, I'm going to ask that you consider maybe lightening up a little. I mean, fuck, you love to quote Jesus this and Jesus That.... dude, Jesus was the definition of bi-partison.

And don't even get me started on gas prices around here... dude, you worked in the oil business... that's no excuse to why I put 20 bucks into my small 4 cylinder truck and the needle doesn't even touch the half-way mark. Goddamnit.

Anyway, good luck with the next two or so years fucking us all in the collective asshole.... James.

My Mom and Her Self Defense Class, Part 2, Plus Other Happenings in the Last 24 Hours

So imagine to my surprise when I get this email on my Blackberry yesterday:

"Jim,

I broke my wrist Saturday during the practical excerise [sic] :( I'm home from work for a few days. Call me.

Love,
Mom"

So, the partially chewed cracker spills from my mouth-ajar and I call her instantly. I put her on speaker phone because I'm a massively lazy dick.

"What the hell happened!" I say into the phone. There's a pause on the other end.

"Hello?" Jesus.

"Mom? What happened!"

"Don't yell at me!" She says.

"I'm not yelling, you're just on speaker, mum"

"Why am I on speaker?"

"Because I'm lazy, now tell me what happened to you on Saturday..." There's another long pause followed by a slow drawn out sigh.

"Well we were doing the practical and... you know they're really good, right? Well, they were putting us through all these scenarios... whether we were being cornered at a bar or at an ATM or whatever. And I was so nervous James. On the video, I'm standing there in line, waiting for my turn, swinging my arms and...

...so anyway, I get up and we're dressed in all this stuff, like hockey gloves and catcher's masks and so on, and well, I hit this guy in the face. And when I hit him he went down and was like 'whoooaaa' but at the same time I felt my wrist kinda ... pop. It didn't start bothering me until I got back from the ice capades and my wrist was all swollen."

Leave it to my mother, to go from whooping some dude's ass to the ice capades. Awesome.

In other news the roommate and I went to go see "Street Kings" last night. We sat in a virtually empty theatre rows and seats apart. We decided that we really didn't need to sit right next to each other because well... that'd be kinda gay, even though everyone at the station, including The Lady, thinks we're gay for each other.

What else, what else. I can't really concentrate right now because The Lady is over here, on my bed wearing an ironic Transformer's t shirt and yoga pants. Upon her entry into my apt I commented:

"Cool shirt, but I was more of a Megatron fan growing up. Actually cancel that - I was a Sound Wave fan, because I liked how we talked... all synthesizer-y." She comments back that she actually hates the Transformers. I don't hold it against her, considering she's a chick and... probably played with Barbies while I was playing with a tractor trailer truck that would morph into a red and blue robot with a few quick snaps of plastic.

At the mall today, again the roommate mentioned he was still in some sort of limited contact with his whale of a lay from a week or so ago. He's been ignoring everyone's advice to sever ties, and though he claims he directly called her "fat" via a text message, she still talks to him.

"Dude, she's a stalker with dependency issues, you need to full-out stop talking to her, she's dangerous," I say as I'm browsing for a plain brown belt at Pacific Sunwear (they only make belts for skinny hipster kids, apparently, size 34? c'mon...)

"I can't... what if I stop talking to her and like a month from now she comes back at me with 'oh hey, I'm pregnant...'" He says with a hint of anxiety. I roll my eyes. He's been playing out this scenario of the last two weeks it would seem.

"That's beyond likely, because you wore a condom, right?"

"Yeah."

"So why are you stressing out over stupid shit like that?"

"Dude, I dunno, it's just like, I don't want it to happen..."

"Then why do you still talk to her. If that's what you're worried about, getting the hell away from her would seem the likely thing to do. If a little while goes by and she's like 'oh I'm pregnant' and you've still been in touch with her, she's going to stick you with a baby that may or may not be yours, oppose to if you cut ties with her, and a year from now she comes back at you with some screaming hellspawn, you can be like 'bitch I don't even know who you are, we've never met.'" It doesn't exactly sink in.

"But, what if she IS pregnant!"

"What makes you think she is? And a bitch saying she's pregnant is likely trying to get you to stick around, when she's not even knocked up! It's the same thing with the hundred dollar Lacoste cologne she bought you. She's setting a trap. You don't owe that bitch anything, so why are you acting like you do? You know what," and this is where I start to get angry. "I'm actually going to order you to stop talking to her. That's a serious order."

He looks at me blankly.

"You can't do that," he says.

"The fuck I can! I out rank you by one grade. You take orders from me. And you're now ordered not to speak to that fat bitch." He looks at me for a long time and says nothing. "This mall needs an Orange Julius," I say after a prolonged silence.

We're on our way out the door to the truck when I spot this hot little number walking into the Marshal's.

"Go talk to her, go get her, catch up to her," I nudge my roommate. He half steps.

"You go get her," he comes back with.

"I can't. I'm kinda... you know, caught up in something. Just go up to her, say 'hey, I saw you from back there, I don't know who you are, and you don't know who I am, but I want to change that. Give me your number and let me take you out to dinner this weekend'. Just be fucking direct. Girls love a guy with balls who'll just ask them out. If she says she has a boyfriend, tell her you don't care, it's just dinner. If she says 'no thank you' tell you won't take no for an answer. Don't come across aggressive or... fucking... crazy, just be your sweet self, be assertive, take control. Who's in control here?"

"...I dunno, bro..." His posture starts to melt.

"WHO'S IN CONTROL HERE!" I yell. People are now staring at us. I look around and make direct eye contact with a few of the weird goths out in the midday sun at the mall. "Fuck it, you lost her, massive fail." She's no longer in eye sight and I start for the door.

"I'm sorry, bro" he says from behind me.

Yeah, me too.