Posts Tagged ‘cars’

As much as I can degrade my high school the one thing I will never insult them was on their driver’s education program. In 10th grade instead of health class for the first marking period we had driver’s education. It was a very productive thing as no students from my graduating class have died from car crashes. Many have died from health related issues so maybe picking driving instructions over teaching us about how to live a healthy lifestyle wasn’t such a good idea.

(Class of 2006! Lets go Spartans!)

The process for learning how to drive in my school was simple. First you go to health class and learn all the stupid rules. Second you do something called “The Simulator” (I know, that sounds so incredibly sexy). The Simulator was basically a virtual driving test filmed in the 1970s. 12 students sit in fake cars and we have to act appropriately to whatever happens on the big screen in front of us. The computer scores if we reacted properly to each scenario and gives us a point value. The first week many of us got scores in the 70s, some much lower. By the end most of us were scoring consistently near 100. A few girls still after a month of this everyday were getting scores near 50. This means they were screwing up nearly half the time while driving. Luckily these girls all seemed so scummy that I doubt any will ever even be able to afford a car.

If you pass The Simulator then you wait around in study hall for your birthday to come around. Once your birthday does come it’s time to actually go out on the road. A vision test is required before you can participate in “Behind the Wheel” the program where you actually drive a real life car. I did very badly on the vision test. The school nurse told me to try again. I did poorly again. She pointed to the big E on the very top. I said “E” and she said “Good enough.” And that’s why I shouldn’t be allowed to drive without glasses.

(Will you look at this, I wasn’t even right with the E)

When Behind the Wheel actually came I was assigned a partner and a gym teacher to help me learn how to drive. My partner was the biggest NASCAR fan in the school. My gym teacher was probably the tallest teacher in school. We were a unique bunch and certainly we would all die together in some horrific crash.

There were so many birthdays in October that my first chance behind the wheel of a car was sometime in the winter after a big snow storm. I gave NASCAR Boy the first ups in driving. I thought for sure he would zoom out of the parking lot and make a left-hand turn without thinking. Instead we were treated to 3 miles per hour and the gym teacher/driving instructor telling him to “speed it along.” On the first day we drove through a local neighborhood and at a random point switched. I got behind the wheel of a car for the first time legally and managed to survive.

Behind the Wheel continued for another 2 weeks or so. Everyday instead of doing homework and trying to avoid the fat Spanish kid who always made fun of me during study hall, I would go out and practice driving. At one point I almost drove into a Blockbuster as I had no understanding of the term “ride the brake.” I also got stuck in a circle with many yield signs. Nobody had ever told me a yield sign means to move out of the way as fast as you can and rudely cut off as many people as you can. I thought yield was an old-timey word for stop. So I did stop. And that’s the time I got honked at by someone else for the first time.

(I can’t think of any other instances in life where yielding is necessary. Maybe cooking? Raping? I don’t do either much so only driving shall this word remain relevant)

I passed Behind the Wheel as did my partner. For the next few months I had my learner’s permit and would jump at every opportunity to drive with my mom, dad, or sister. I practiced parallel parking for about 20 minutes total and have done it properly once since. It’s much simpler to abandon your car and buy a new one than to try parallel parking in a pressure situation.

On the day of my actual driver’s test at the DMV I had to wait in a long line. My birthday falls around Columbus Day so things were backed up from the holiday weekend. I finally got to the front, nervous I might get stuck with the infamous black driving instructor who I heard was a real asshole. Instead I got with some fat woman who seemed equally as mean. They tried to trick me by putting a stop sign within the first 10 feet of where the test begins. Ha! You can’t fool me. Everyone already told me about that trick. Someone cut me off during my test and I spent the rest of the evaluation talking to the driving instructor about how much other people deserve to die.

(Every driver here deserves to die. Especially the ones with the stupid yellow tops. Are those rickshaws?)

It took one try and I got my license easy. I was blind and learned everything I knew from a guy who was a kickball teacher. Yet with these disadvantages I managed to get my license. And now I have to pay $20 to get it renewed. I’m pretty sure license renewals are just ways to track down wanted killers and people living off the grid. We can fake a moon landing but we still cannot make the DMV a fun place to visit. Life stinks sometimes.

I don’t get much a chance to watch live television very often. When I do it’s in two places, bars or car repair shops. Bars always have sporting matches on TV. What does this say for sports? You have to be drunk to enjoy them? It’s like people who always get high for concerts. If you have to smoke weed to enjoy a concert experience then I believe you need to find better music. Yes, I’m talking about you Dave Matthews Band fans. His Adam Sandler singing voice leaves much to be desired. When I’m getting my car repaired it’s usually during the middle of the day. What’s on the television? Daytime television. I’m pretty sure in Hell it’s always 10-2 and The Price Is Right channel goes dark at 11. Nothing is worse than daytime television. And don’t go telling me infomercials at 3 in the morning are worse. At least at 3 in the morning you can convince yourself you should be in bed or opening up a vein.

I went into a car repair shop recently. I had some extra cash and felt like being lied to. I had prepared myself ahead of time with a book about paranormal hoaxes and my laptop. My laptop is very big and obnoxious. I had thought I would journey out to the Starbucks down the street to use it. Possibly go online and try to find the Facebook accounts of the Baristas working there then freak them out as they see exactly what it is I am looking at. It was a hot day so I decided to stay inside and work on the book reading. What I subjected myself to was far worse. The television in the corner.

First up on the TV was whatever comes on before The View. I blocked it out because The View pretty much garnered most of my anger. On this episode they had a special guest who was an open homosexual. They asked him questions about whether or not it was hard for him to come out. Joy Behar said the word “faggot” which was beeped out. Why did she think she could get away with saying that word? Does she not know how much those faggots offend fans of The View? She only said the word because they had mentioned “the other F word” and wanted to clarify to her idiot audience she didn’t mean the word “fuck.” She was quite insulting in doing so. Then Elisabeth Hasselbeck said something cute and Conservative then we laughed at her for marrying the crappy quarterback from the Hasselbeck family.

(She married the athletic Rob Corddry. This might be the worst hairline in professional sports history)

After The View ended a news broadcast came on. There apparently was a 40 minute standoff near city hall which ended the way all standoffs do. The gunman fired at the cops, missed, then caught a bullet himself. The only other news I remember was Ryan Howard being put back into the Phillies lineup for the first time this season. I would make a guffaw here about if you’re a Phillies fan this season you probably would hope to get shot by police, but I know most people who read this blog find sports as interesting as I find them.

(I’m kidding! You love sports! And I love you! Even if Taylor does look annoyed about having to do her dumb gang sign over and over again)

The Meredith Viera version of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire was up next. Nobody ever liked this version. It’s too fast. The contestants are dumber. The rules are completely different. To make up for how much the show sucked they had two Olympians on. One of them was Dominique Dawes who I actually remember from my days of gymnastics watching. The other was some bozo from Middle America who seemed unsure of himself. I always knew athletes were retarded. These two proved it. I forget what one of the questions they had to skip over (yeah, they let you skip over questions now, no shit). They got way too excited when they knew anything. These two idiots ended up with $25,000 for their charity when they could have had about $61,000. They blew it on a science question about Total Recall. Stick to working once every four years you dopes and leave the smarts people with BMI over 25.

After millionaire came on the worst show I have ever seen. I wanted to tell the mechanics to cut my brakes and let me drive away. The show went by the name The Chew. It started off innocently enough. A bald gay guy, a gay guy with hair, Bridgett French-last name, an ugly Maya Rudolph impersonator, that fat chef Mario, and possibly a few others stood around cooking and making light banter with some insults. Then came the personal segments. There was Clinton’s Craft Corner where the gay guy with hair uses jazz hands to remind us how happy he is to not live in a place like Iran. There was a segment where the ugly Maya Rudolph did some weird dance and nobody laughed. The big get for this episode was when fat Mario went to visit Bon Jovi’s restaurant. Myself and another man in the room laughed at how Bon Jovi pretended he actually shows up each night to wash dishes. Yeah, fuck you Jon Bon. Don’t act like you’re some do-gooder because you opened up a restaurant to make enough money to pay for your summer home.

(“I’m a regular guy who struggles with money. I can’t even afford sleeves for my shirts or buttons to keep them together.” – some prick)

I totally forgot to mention how Wayne Brady was a guest on The View. How did I read a book while being able to take note into all this horribleness? I don’t mind Wayne Brady. He makes racist white people feel like they’re tolerant. If I saw Wayne Brady walking down the street I would smile then expect him to do an impromptu song about how sexy I am. I’ll pretend he didn’t rehearse this ahead of time and we’ll all laugh. Mr. Brady is not my cup of tea though. I’m not his target audience which is why I did not enjoy his segment. He is the definition of daytime television. Innocent, inoffensive, and interracial. The three I’s. How is he interracial? He’s part Zulu and part Jamaican. I’m making that up.

What I learned about daytime television here is that this demon was created for women who like to turn off their minds. Everything is about dancing and being chipper. These shows are designed to lighten even the saddest of days. You know those days women who love daytime television have where they forget to cut the crust off their ugly kid’s sandwich. Those horribly sad days when you want to kill yourself. I’m a person who always needs to be thinking. I always need to feel as if I’m growing in some way. Progress must constantly be made. Otherwise I’m stuck in a never changing life where the years continue to add up and the accomplishments stay the same.

How do you feel about daytime television? What from it do you watch? I believe the hours 12-2 were always the worst from what I remember. By 2 reruns and more edgy kid’s shows have begun to air. Not that they ever have nudity on Recess, but they do have the one slutty Ashley.

(Tell me the blonde does not grow up to have hepatitis)

I drive a 2001 Gold Subaru Forester. Ultimate chick magnet mobile. It actually came with a condom holder it was designed to attract women so badly. It does not run on fuel. My car runs on Axe deodorant. If you see me driving without a hot babe beside me take a closer look. Her head is probably somewhere else. Yep, driving a long-lasting automobile is the way to go if you want to make a woman preen with sexual desire.

Okay, maybe no girl will ever fall for me over my car. I’m not even sure if it’s a 2001 or a 2002. I’m that unknowledgeable about these devices. I feel like a rhino could write Shakespeare before I could ever build an automobile. And the only thing rhyming with rhino is gyno or wino. Gynos can’t write poetry and neither can winos. Cars are not something that are very important to me. Sure, I’d love to drive a Porsche with a door that opens upward. I love things opening upward! Star Wars doors are fantastic. Or maybe I’m thinking of garage doors. Either way, both are badass.

 (I could totally see Storm Troopers blast out of that garage. The lesbian riding shotgun even has a Luke Skywalker hairdo)

My life has had two cars in it. My first was a 1998 Red Dodge Intrepid. Boomhauer from my post Weird Kids would always tell me that it was a Chrysler. I knew it wasn’t a Chrysler because it said Dodge on the back. I had a lot of problems with the car. My first day driving it broke down two blocks away from my house. Mechanics said it was because the previous owner was probably old and drove slowly. The computer must not have been used to the way I drove. Sounds like they’re confusing cars with girlfriends. They’re mechanics. Cars sometimes are the only women in their lives. I also went a few months with my driver’s door not working. I would have to slide across the passenger seat. I still managed to get my first girlfriend despite this. And she didn’t break up with me because of it! Thank goodness I was too out of shape and boring for her. I might have felt bad otherwise if my car was to blame.

The old car broke down quite a bit. Brand new engine and everything. Maybe it needed a new hemmy? I don’t know what a hemmy is. Men with large guts in truck commercials seem to get hard-ons talking about them. The current car runs pretty smoothly. It’s always been rather loud which can be a pain during a drive by shooting or child abduction. I get why gang members always drive new quiet cars and why bitter weekend dads keep up with their oil changes. You don’t want everyone looking at you before you commit the crime. It gives them time to let your face sink into the minds of those snitches.

(All smiles as Roy finishes up his oil change in preparation to kidnap his teenage children from his ex-wife with precise precision and not a sound)

As well as the car runs, things are not near perfect. The backseat is consistently filled with trash. If I had someone to impress or wasn’t so lazy as to bring my car trash can back out there then maybe things would be less of a mess. It’s really not that bad. I’m not one of those people with M&M shells lying around. I hate sitting in a car with M&M stains on the seats. That’s always a sign the driver is a diabetic. I’m not very good at keeping things clean. Neat I can do. It’s things like dust and hairs I’m horrible with. I think there are still hairs on my emergency break from before I last cut my hair in November. They’re pretty long and the only other people allowed in my car are members of the Aryan Brotherhood or lesbians who think they’re pixies.

 (Once Katie Holmes climbed into my car with a pixie haircut. She yelled at me to “Drive Elron Hubbard damn it!” Tom Cruise injected her with a needle and she agreed to do that Queen Latifah heist movie instead of the second Batman)

The Check Engine light is something I have come to assume needs to be flashing in order for a car to work. I was bringing my car in so often the mechanic told me years ago that it’s just something that will happen with older cars and not to worry. I was told by a teacher to tell this mechanic I was a student at the high school I went to. The mechanic’s son went to that school before dying as a freshman. Wouldn’t mentioning that I was a junior in that school make him sad? I never got a discount or anything. I did leave my student planner with the high school’s logo sitting on the passenger seat as a subtle way of relaying information. I did find a few tear drops on one of the pages. I felt so bad I didn’t mind paying $800 to have my windshield wipers replaced in order to fix my brakes.

A broken windshield is the only major thing I have had wrong with my car. Something large flew up and left a huge dent in my windshield. I was on my way to work. On a Saturday too. Then this happened. I had a man come to my apartment and fix it for me. He put duct tape on the edges to be safe. He said to take the tape off in 48 hours. I was so frightened I left it on for 2 months. The company even emailed a picture of him to me so I could know who to expect. That’s kind of weird. Am I supposed to care what my repairman looks like? If he’s a certain ethnicity should I be more weary of the job he’ll do? Safelite repair, Safelite racist.

The strangest problem I’ve been having with my car involves those racks above the car. Are they called racks? I might just be calling them racks because I’m constantly thinking about breasts. I may even post a picture of breasts below for your enjoyment! One of the notches had broken off at some point. Probably before purchasing. I’m not sure if they’re called notches either. I’ve just been thinking about belts a lot too. Anyway, what I guess happens is when I drive at highway speeds the horizontal racks go up and down. I only know this because several drivers have pulled up alongside me, pointed up, then imitated that action. Two people did it all of last year. Three people have done it this week. The yarn I used to tie it down must have only snapped off recently. That or people don’t care enough about my safety in the winter. God forbid they roll down their windows and let their heat escape.

(Chicken breasts are still breasts. Sorry if you were expecting something more satisfying)

What about your car sucks? Don’t say the air conditioner does not work. Nobody’s air conditioner works in their car. I’m convinced they were designed not to. Henry Ford enjoys the smell of sweat.

I guarantee one person from my Facebook who attended Rutgers University clicked on this. Thank you for doing so. Thank you so much for never reading anything I have written and only clicking on this because you saw your alma mater here. I so appreciate you thinking outside of yourself.

For those you not familiar with Rutgers University, consider yourselves lucky. Let me explain to you what it is exactly. I’m sure you can relate. Basically it’s that one college in the area that everyone seems to go to. I’m sure you have a version of it near you. A college that everyone seems to go to and nobody ever seems to go onto anything better after graduating? Basically it’s that college where you know the people only got in there because their parents could afford it over sending them to community college.

The main nickname people have for Rutgers is Slutgers. It’s clever because you see, it rhymes and sluts are bad. The only girls who ever call someone a slut are sluts themselves. The only guys who ever call someone a slut are guys who never get laid. To be fair, it does have one of the highest rates of sexually transmitted diseases of universities in the United States. That’s quite an accomplishment. Do you know how much sex must go on there for that to happen? I take it back. Calling it Slutgers is the most accurate thing you could ever call it.

I know a lot of people who went to school there. Most of them gave me that old “Hey, I know you’re going to community college and all, but I want to keep in touch! I’ll make my way into the inner circle of a group of college friends and then invite you to parties. We’ll be friends forever.” and then they never talked to me ever again. The school was maybe 40 minutes away, if that. I couldn’t get invited to one awful party and flirt with one obese girl at a party? I still like to tell myself nobody invites me to parties because they know I’d totally be the center of attention. You could only tell yourself that so much until you start to realize that’s a false idea.

But this isn’t about a college of mediocrity. A college where if the teams finish with an even record it’s considered great. This is about the bumper stickers on the backs of cars. Maybe because I never went to a University I never felt the need to share my life with others on the back of my car. Especially not the need to brag about where I shelled out $30,000 a semester. It’s one of those things I will never understand. The need to let strangers know about you. That’s how children get kidnapped! We were always told never to have your name on your book bag because a stranger would see it, say “Hey Tim, your mom was in a really bad car accident. I’m her friend, Bruce. She wants me to take you to her.” Of course I would never fall for this. The first is that my mom never picked me up from school so why would she send some friend I had never heard of before to do it? The second is that my mom was an extreme anti-Semite. She would never befriend a creepy Jewish man named Bruce. Nice try pedophile. You’re not diddling me any time soon.

I see a lot of cars around my work and hometown with Rutgers bumper stickers. Not so much where I live. I don’t think people where I live ever go to college. Or get off welfare. For some reason everyone with a Rutgers bumper sticker thinks they’re hot-to-trot. They drive fast, they don’t use turn signals, gonorrhea seems to be shooting out the windows of their cars. There’s some stigma about them. I know not everyone from this college is a total waste of space. It’s only the ones with the bumper stickers. The big red R’s. I hate them so much. I won’t go into a big thing about how their nickname is The Scarlett Knights and then point out the obvious that a Knight wearing the color Scarlett never once in the history of the world stood in New Brunswick, New Jersey. Or I just did.

The only good thing about these bumper stickers are that they’re a warning to stay away. I know to expect sudden stops. Left hand turns at signs that say “No Left Turns” are imminent. To these people, Yield means stop completely and hold up traffic. What are they teaching people at this school? This is also the same school where I think it was about a year or two ago that a gay student was filmed by his roommate having gay sex with another man. It was broadcast online. The kid proceeded to jump off a bridge due to the embarrassment. Sure, it’s embarrassing. But now you don’t have to go through the harsh moment of actually saying the words “I’m gay” to people who won’t accept you. Nothing could be more brave than to continue living your life. Letting yourself get distraught over this sends a really bad message to others in the same situation as you. It’s like saying “I’m gay and I know it’s wrong.” They’re also trying to convict the two students responsible for filming it. I won’t get into a long rant about how shitty that is and that it’s not their fault that someone else is so embarrassed about who they are that they’re willing to kill themselves over it. What if it was a straight guy was filmed having sex with a fat chick? Eddie Murphy got caught with a transsexual. What’d he do to make us forget about it? He made a lot of bad movies ever since. We forgot about it. Get over yourself. You live in a country that is so wonderful that you can have gay sex and not die be killed because of it. Other parts of the world you’d be stoned in the face. Quit complaining. Children die of starvation every day. You call yourself a “liberal” and “open minded” yet all you care about is yourself and your own wants and desires. Go fuck yourself college kids. Rutgers or wherever it is you go.

I didn’t stay much on topic which is probably for the best. There wasn’t much to say about a lousy red bumper sticker in the first place. All I wanted to really say through all of this is that I don’t care where you go to college. It doesn’t make you better or worse than anyone else. We all end up dead. Having a class ring from a certain place isn’t going to do you much good then will it?

What was it that Izzy used to say?

(My daily commute, in map form!)

On average, it takes me an hour to get to work. This enables me to think a lot. It probably also screws with my posture and is the reason why I hate driving. I never was all that excited about driving. I used to think as soon as I could drive I would go tons of places. New York City, Los Angeles, Cancun, Zimbabwe, anywhere my car could take me I’d go! Then I discovered how much gas costs. And how much an oil change costs. And how much labor on car repairs costs. At times it seems like I only work to pay to own a car. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled in that thing.

When I moved to my current location I had planned on quitting my job after a few months and finding something better. The only real job I could probably get would be one that pays less than at my current one. There are also other problems. The first being that I’m not good-looking enough to work at Applebees. Have you seen the people who work there? Hubba-Hubba! It’s like you get rejected from Applebees and then pursue underwear modeling. I’ve written before how sexy I find waitresses. I’m currently dating a girl who works at Chilis. She doesn’t know we’re dating and I’m still waiting to say more to her than “Another Diet Coke please!” Our fingers touched once on the soda hand off. I hope she doesn’t realize I did that on purpose. I want her to think it’s fate. The only other reason preventing me from quitting my current job is being a coward. I’m too comfortable there. I’ve been there six years plus now. I know the ins and outs. I associate comfort with sadness and anger. Anything that feels comfortable also is a detriment in my life. Take my bed for instance. Very comfy. The problem with it? Not enough waitresses in it! And you thought you had it rough.

Today going to work I realized that my commute is entirely too long. Nobody should have to drive an hour to a job they don’t really like. I probably shouldn’t type out that I don’t like my job on the off-chance that a coworker or boss reads this. My logic is that they will read this, I will be called into a large room with a council of faceless individuals behind dark smoke, and they will on a giant computer visit my site and tell me why I am fired. Not only will this force me to get my ass in gear and try out something new, it would also give me an extra hit to my blog. Double score!

As an attempt to capitalize on my painfully long commute I have attempted to make a humorous list of things that let you know that your commute is too long. I think calling this humorous completely negates the possibility of this containing any slice of humor. Sorry to disappoint you. Now you understand how my family feels toward me.

1) Coldplay comes on the radio more than once

I don’t like Coldplay. A bearded 20-year-old found out that I liked Led Zeppelin and recommended Coldplay to me because of that. I punched him the groin soon there after.

Driving a lot gives me time to listen to a lot of radio. I am an expert into how many times certain songs are played. Never in the course of an hour except during a double shot should I have to suffer through two Coldplay songs. Do they not realize that I could kill someone with my vehicle out of anger? One an hour is plenty.

2) You know the morning, midday, and afternoon drive DJ names of at least 3 radio stations

Like I mentioned, I listen to a lot of radio. Even at home I do. Mostly sports talk which is painful this time of year because baseball and hockey are the only sports I’m committed to.

I’m probably the only person under the age of 84 who has radio programs that he enjoys and schedules his life around. I feel like Ralphie from A Christmas Story. The only difference between us is I already got my gun. It’s called my right arm.

3) You’ve seen 10 accidents in one day

I’ll be fair with this one. The day I saw 10 accidents was during that freak snow storm we had in the Northeast right before Halloween. It was like Armageddon out there.

In all of my driving (I’ve driven about 80,000 miles in my life) I’ve never been in an accident. I know I might be jinxing this and am shaking as I type this. I’m a very careful driver. People honk their horns at me and scream obscenities as I go 40 on the highway. This is their way of saying they’re jealous. Slow and steady wins the race.

4) People tell you to “get home safe” even when it isn’t a special occasion or bad weather outside

I know it’s sweet for people to wish me luck in getting home, but I can handle it. Imagine the one time someone does forget to say that and you die. That’ll haunt them for a few years.

Most of my drive is 35 miles down a highway which never has heavy traffic. I could probably do it with my eyes closed at this point. I never would though. Fall foliage between exits 47 and 52 keeps me alert. Nothing like bright oranges, reds, and browns to keep me from wanting to die.

5) You’ve eaten food off of the passenger seat of your car you got so hungry

To be fair it was a piece of cereal.

To be unfair I have no clue what type of cereal it was. Not even sure if it was from the previous owner or not.

6) You’ve gotten off at the wrong exit

When you drive the same route every day, you’d think you’d never make a mistake. It’s only happened once where I got off the wrong exit. Once too many.

I was only one exit early and it delayed me in getting home by about 10 minutes. I was really hungry and had already eaten the only piece of cereal I could scavenge from my passenger seat. I haven’t made the same mistake since. The taking the wrong exit thing. I still eat cereal I find.

7) Your check engine light comes on and turns off in the same drive

It’s never happened to me, but I’m sure it has to someone. There are people out there with much longer commutes than I have. Anything is possible.

My check engine light always comes on. No matter what car I own it’s inevitable. The mechanics always try to tell me that I should get it checked out. It always ends up being nothing. That’s why I don’t trust mechanics or ever take their advice. Sorry but white guys with hands that look like they belong on Flava Flav are not my role models.

8) You’ve come up with brilliant ideas that you forget because your idea has now turned into a conversation with yourself

I do this all the time. I have a lot of conversations in my head. I feel this isn’t as crazy as it reads. The crazy part is that most of my head conversations involve Jay Leno interviewing me on my newest movie. We laugh and go out for drinks after the show. That’s a taste inside my head.

The worst thing about getting a great idea when you’re driving is that you have to keep repeating it in your head so that you’ll remember it before writing it down. This stops you from having new brilliant ideas. Then when you get home you realize it wasn’t a great idea after all. Like my dream that I wrote down about a song that was about having the same birthday as the Pope.

Same as the Pope,

Same as the Pope,

Just like the Pope,

Same as the Pope.

I know my lyrics aren’t up there with the likes of John Lennon or Billy Ray Cyrus, but damn it at least I don’t have a hole in my head or slut my daughter around.

Cars are something I should be very thankful for. Believe it or not, they didn’t always exist. Many years ago we’d have to use animal backs to get around on. Animals probably hated this. It’s got to be rough to have THE CAMEL LIFE!!! or the life of a horse, elephant, or gigantic spider. People are always climbing on their backs. I almost don’t feel bad when they buck someone off.

I hope your commute isn’t very long. It can be hell driving a long distance to somewhere you really would rather not be at. I feel comfortable saying that I don’t want to be at work. Nobody wants to be there. Even my bosses say how much they hate it. Would they be going back to school in a completely unrelated degree field if they loved their job so much? Not unless they’re trying to throw me for a loop. Damn Illuminati. I’ve been foiled again!

I didn’t see a Jesus face in a sandwich. My Virgin Mary salt and pepper shakers didn’t begin to cry blood. Neither of those amazing events did not occur in my life. Something more miraculous happened. I interacted with devout Christians twice in the span of 4 days. What is this world coming to? The lion is really lying down with the lamb. I’m the lion. Lambs are kind of wimps. I also haven’t shaved in about a week.

I’ve never had a big argument with a follower of Christ. There’s no point in it. What am I going to yell at them? GRARG!!! ? Chances are, we’re both wrong in what we believe. I don’t go out spewing my beliefs and when others yell out theirs I usually just agree to keep the violence level down. It’s like that famous argument between Barney Gumble and Wade Boggs:

There’s no point in arguing over something like the origin of man or where we go after we die. What matters is the here and now. Lets live together in peace and fight it out when we are reincarnated into spiders.

My first religious encounter came at a bar. That’s where I guess most people find God. I thought I found God in a bar bathroom before. He was tall and boisterous with a long coat on. Directly out of a Medieval Image of God himself. Turned out that it was a homeless man shaving. I found that out when he told me to tug on his beard and was met with a handful of shaving cream. I avoid public bathrooms now. Tugging on beards as well.

I’m sitting at the bar minding my own business with my buddy listening to the musician that is there every week playing the same Oasis songs. Oasis must be the easiest band to cover. Everybody knows how to play Wonderwall. We’re sitting there when a man in a Texas Longhorns hat walks up to us. He has a very small face and squints a lot. His goatee is a fiery red. The woman he’s there with, a ghoul. He turns to us and asks if we’re from Seattle. He must be drunk. Then he explains that we’re dressed with the “Seattle style” and that he lived there before. The Seattle style meaning I’m dressed like a bully from The Simpsons and my friend has on a plaid shirt. We took it as a compliment. Much nicer than saying we’re dressed like someone from Princeton, the location of this encounter. People in Princeton dress like Ivy Leaguers. They tie sweaters around their waists and walks around with women on their arms who wear jewelry that would sell for more than my entire family. In other words, it’s hell.

The man goes on to tell us that he’s a seminary student and works at the church up the street. He didn’t ask us to come sometime which surprised me. Religious people will sell you anything. They never follow-up though. I gave one religious man my e-mail address to send me information on his church and how I could be enlightened. Never got an e-mail from him. My guess, he was hit by a bus after turning the corner.

What surprised me with my interaction with this holy man was that I did not lie to him. I usually lie to people I meet at bars. Usually, it’s not hard. But with this guy I couldn’t tell a lie. I told him my name, where I was from, and the last time I masturbated, just for good measure. He had a hex on me. His charm and unwillingness to convert me disabled my ability to lie. Maybe he found his true calling. If he can get an ass like me to be honest to strangers, maybe he does have Jesus on his side.

Then came my second encounter with some religious folks. I was at the library updating my blog, e-mailing television agents who will have a good laugh at my query letter then delete it, and searching about what the latest results were on last night’s episode of Monday Night RAW. I was wearing my Boondock Saints hoodie which on the front contains the two stars pointing guns downward, execution style. On the back is what they say before blowing someone’s brains out. I’d type it all out, but do not feel like standing up. Something about shepherds and thus and ye. It’s a popular hoodie of mine. Girls have come up to me and talked to me about it. I begin to flirt then they yell “Hey honey, remember that movie?” and their boyfriends twice my size approaches and begins to talk to me. Fuck. Thought I had this one.

I’m sitting there wondering how many people in my township don’t have day jobs. The library is packed for it being noon on a Tuesday. Not everyone is old either. The man cleaning the toilet is, but the girl asking her friend if they should rent Kramer vs. Kramer must be around my age.

I feel a tap on my shoulder. Shit! I’m about to be asked to leave. I turn to see a bearded man with lines on his face. You know when you wake up in the morning and your bed sheets are all folded over and wrinkly? That was this man’s face! He had his ugly wife/girlfriend/partner/fuck buddy with him. She was short and fat. I didn’t look at her much. But I did notice that I could see her tonsils through the gaps in her teeth.

Sheet Face told me he really liked my hoodie. Then he began to read the back of it. He was amazed. I think he stopped reading when he got near my ass. That would be a sin. He asked me where I got it from and I told him the truth, Hot Topic. Then, almost in a cocky manner, he said “So I take it you’re a Christian?” I stuttered out a “Yes, of course.” He and his lumpy partner were impressed. In a world with so many horrors, they could still find a young man who believed. They shook my hand and told me that they were good Christians too. I just remembered that I touched their hands. Shit. I need some soap. Religious people always have dirty hands. Probably from never cleaning out their holy water. Holy water recycles itself. It’s made of 23% hand grease.

The two holy rollers left thinking that they had made a new Christian friend. Despite the fact that the front of my shirt had men with guns on it and I was wearing an Opie & Anthony hat, I must be a good human being. Or maybe they weren’t just that observant. They saw one detail and thought that it must be true. They didn’t analyze the rest of the situation. Like if I had porn up on my computer, but still had a religious psalm on the back of my shirt, I must be a good Christian. Pay attention to all the facts! That’s how people come to believe half the ridiculous things they read.

I felt a little guilty lying and saying that I was a Christian. The weird thing, it was the same type of guilt I used to feel when I would say that I wasn’t. Have I grown to accept my own beliefs? I think so. It doesn’t matter what I believe. Really, it’s not up to me. I can learn whatever it is that I want, but for me to believe something takes life experiences and depends on the personality that I have. I’m not exactly sure what it is that I believe. What I do know is that I am not a Christian.

So what did I learn from this? With one religious guy I managed to tell the truth. With another, I managed to tell a bold-faced lie. I made the second guy feel good, like there is hope out there for this world anyway. Okay, probably not. But who knows? None of us do. I think the only thing I can take away from this is that when strangers talk to me that I get nervous and say whatever it is that I think they want to hear. If that man asked me if I liked to suck cocks you can bet I would say that I did.

I don’t mind lying to strangers. It’s hard for me to do though. Maybe I’m an honest guy. Or at least slow-witted on thinking up something clever and rude to say. Yep, let’s go with that one.


Before posting this, I had yet a new experience with a pushy religious nut. I was getting my 7,000 mile oil change (it helps the car build up an immunity waiting so long). The shop only contained 5 seats and 4 of them were occupied. I wasn’t about to sit next to a stranger. What am I, a whore? So I went outside and sat on those chairs. I read the book that I brought with me using a ticket from a baseball game as the book mark. While reading, a man came outside on his phone. He spit a lot and had a hoodie over his head. When the phone call ended he turned to me and asked what book I was reading. I told him and explained it then laughed. He seemed disinterested. Until he said something horrible.

“Have you ever read the Bible?”

What does that have to do with a book written by one of the writers of the Simpsons? Did he not hear me explain what my book interests were? I lied and said that I had read parts. I figured, if I said I read it all and he quizzed me and I got it wrong, I’d look like a buffoon. If I got a few questions incorrect, they could be parts that I hadn’t yet read. I was thinking on my toes.

He continued to praise Jesus. Saying how he saved him from drugs, alcohol, and hormones. Those dangerous deadly hormones. I made up a quick story in my head about how he had been taking hormone supplements during a sex change gone awry. I don’t think he would have enjoyed the story.

Aaron, as he introduced himself as before leaving, continue to spew out nonsense. He said that The Bible is a guide to how to live your life and how to get to heaven. I really wanted to tell him that I was enjoying my book and to please go away. I just can’t do it though. The power of Christ compels me to be a non-confrontational liar.

“I can tell that you were raised in church.” said Aaron. I was not raised in church. I’ve been inside churches maybe 10 times in my life. Half were for auctions. The other half were me being tricked into thinking it was some place more fun, like a carpet store. He asked when the last time I had been in church was. I said only a few months ago which I guess is true. The last church I went to was in a fancy hotel. They had big screen televisions and a token Hasidic Jew. What? My excuse for not going to church recently was because I had just moved into town. I’ve been here almost 2 years. Yet another amazing lie told to a religious man.

So maybe what it comes down to is that I can lie to people who annoy me. I didn’t lie to the religious man who didn’t shove his beliefs in my face. I was completely honest with him. Plus he was at a bar. That’s pretty slick for a guy who doesn’t think dinosaurs were real.

Car Shows

Posted: September 20, 2011 in September 2011
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I’ve never been a big car guy. It’s probably because I was never molested by a truck driver. That’s my theory, at least, with guys who are obsessed with cars. I took one community college psychology class so I could always be wrong in my assumption. But that’s why it’s called a theory. It backs me up if I’m wrong. Gravity is a theory yet no one has been able to disprove it. Disprove my theory and then we can have an argument.

Car Shows might be one of the most boring things I could ever think of doing. It’s an entrance fee to go look at a parking lot. Being the slave in a Slave Auction sounds more appealing than a Car Show. I don’t get why anyone would go to one of them. To look at fancy cars and old cars that women died in giving birth. Maybe I’m just so disconnected with the rest of the world. That’s my theory at least.

Speeding Tickets

Posted: September 14, 2011 in September 2011
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I’ve noticed that in a nearby town that I drive through, there are a lot of cops making sure people do not speed. One day I saw two on opposite sides of the road and another at the end of the street. They didn’t have a Frisbee and without one I see no need for men to form a triangular shape. I’m all for stopping teenagers from speeding, but this is excessive. I get too nervous when I see a police car, even when I know that I cleaned my trunk of all the blood. It’s one of them irrational fears that I have where my heart skips a beat and I hope that I don’t get caught doing something bad even when I know at heart I’m a Goody-Two-Shoes.

I was only once pulled over by one of the cops in this particular town. I’m not sure where the borders of the town extend, but I think the town consists of about two houses and half a gas station. A real shit town if you ask me whose best quality is that they have a park bench. When the police officer turned on his sirens and pulled me over he was quite rude. He was a young buck, eager to make a big arrest on a drug kingpin. He immediately asked me how much I had been drinking, which was none. It surprised him that somebody that was driving after midnight with a broken tail light couldn’t be drunk. He took his merry time, as police officers tend to do, and I didn’t get a ticket because I was courteous and frightened. The cop wore glasses and he’s the reason why I always pick on people who wear glasses. Similar to twins, I’m hoping that everyone that wears glasses can feel each other’s pain and that beating up a four-eyed child will inflict pain on this asshole cop.

The whole “fuck cops” ideology is kind of what I want to get into, but not so much. Anyone who I know that says they hate police is a drug addict, snob, or criminal. The police, for the most part, don’t want to fuck with you, despite what you think. If you’re in a parking lot in the middle of the night, they’re going to be suspicious. And they should be because you have tattoos and an ounce of weed in your pocket. You’re not the Dukes of Hazard and the police are not after you to ruin your life. Stop being paranoid and thinking you’re that important. You’re not. You’re a stupid grown child who should be beaten by the cops for real. Now get on Facebook and tell everyone how the police need better things to do then to ruin your night.

Onto other news. What I have noticed and you probably have to, it’s these small rich towns where police seem to be the biggest jerks. They are always out in high numbers trying to catch someone speeding. The reason for this is simple. There is not enough other crime going on in the town. The government needs a certain amount of money each month to pay for their mansions and if they aren’t getting the money from real criminals they do their best to get the common man speeding home to hug their children. It really is pretty stupid when you put it like that, the way it is.

I’ve proposed the problem and now it’s time for me to propose a solution to the problem. Create crime. If you don’t want to be worried about getting a speeding ticket, you have to go out and vandalize property. At the very least this will keep the cops occupied with other matters for the time being. It’s a short term solution. For a longer one you don’t create the problem, you bring it to your town. Start selling drugs in the neighborhoods. Buy a construction company and build cheap housing. Go to your local comedy club and demand that they have more black comedians. Do whatever you can think to make the people around you more dangerous. Pretty soon the police will no longer care if you drive 37 in a 25 zone. They’ll be too busy with more important things, like serving and protecting. Isn’t that a funny idea for a police officer to do.

I think police officers are great and my few dealings with them have almost always been positive. Show respect to the police and they will respect you. Like with any job, you will meet some that are complete jackasses. Don’t argue with them. If you were speeding apologize and don’t make up excuses. As long as you’re not in a rich town you might get off with a warning.

In fact, the more I think about this it’s the rich people we should blame. Them with their big fancy houses and cars made in this century. Their pay cable channels and waterproof pants. Fuck the rich. And fuck their children playing street hockey in the middle of the road. The street was made for driving, not playing. While we’re at it, lets up the speed limits everywhere by 5 MPH. It’s like that old 80s song, “It’s Difficult To Maintain a Speed of 25” or something to that nature. Rubber bands fly faster than cars in residential areas.

So don’t do any of what I suggested trying to raise crime in your area. You won’t get speeding tickets but you will probably die anyway of a stray bullet to the face. The only real way to stay out of a speeding ticket is not to be a douche bag. Very few things are that important that you have to put others lives at risk. Unless those other people are rich. Then go as fast as you please, please.