Insert your own title- I'm late!

Recently, a good (not to mention hot and sexy) friend and I were discussing a great movie from years ago called "Time After Time." It starred Malcolm McDowell (of "A Clockwork Orange" fame) as HG Wells, the well known Sci-Fi writer of classics such as "War of the Worlds" and "The Invisible Man." In the movie, Wells invents a time machine (a la one of his other classics "The Time Machine"), which is promptly stolen by his good friend John Leslie Stevenson (played by David Warner), who also happens to be the notorious Jack The Ripper! The Ripper escapes into modern-day San Francisco and takes up his old habits, while Wells is forced into pursuit of his old friend. A great thriller, with just the right amount of tension, suspense, and cheese (not to mention Warner's spot-on-creepy Ripper portrayal!). It's also the reason for my third straight re-write of the opening of this blog (I blame it on the aforementioned friend for reminding me of the movie... feel free to blame her yourselves...). But I'd be lying if I said I didn't also owe her for giving me the best of the three openings to a blog about time, and why my time is more important than anyone else's...

That's right, I said it. I'm not as young as I used to be and my knees don't work right, so it takes me longer to get where I'm going than, say, someone mumblemumble years younger than myself. I have errands that take up a lot of my time, and they must be done in a timely manner. Trips to the post office, the gas station, the grocers, the porn shop (though that particular trip has died down; I find a lot of the good stuff for free on the internet). The thing is, I have places to see, people to do, so yes, my time is more valuable than yours! Just as I'm sure your time is more valuable to you than mine. Maybe you have a sick relative you're looking to visit. Or a grandchild on the way. Or there's a sale on condoms and you want to stock up, you fucking whore. It doesn't matter, your time is valuable to you, for whatever reason. But, alas, no one's time is more valuable to them than those fucking cultural illiterates...

I was third in line at the gas station, buying beer and smokes, when I spotted him. He stopped at the pump, got out the car, already digging for his wallet. I admit I had hope it wouldn't happen; I mean the guy was an older fellow, maybe late-fifties, and dressed business casual. He just didn't have the look, per se, of an illiterate (Does that sound like I'm saying an illiterate indeed has a particular look? Why, that'd be prejudiced of me, wouldn't it? Who gives a fuck, they're the CIs!). But my hopes were once again dashed as this prick comes striding in the door, squeezes himself to the side of the register and says "Twenty on five."

Here's the thing, people: your time may be more important to you, but I don't give a fuck about you or the reasons why you're in such a hurry. I've got my own shit going on, and don't have the inclination to give a fuck about why you're in a rush. All I know is that I apparently got up a little earlier than you did, and therefore am not as pressed for time. You're not going to visit your problems on me because of your poor time management. When I'm in line ahead of you, you'll wait your fucking turn. If that means I start calling out "The line's back there, asslick" or "We were here first, you fucking cunt," then that's what I'll do. Maybe you don't embarrass easily and won't give a shit what I say... but it'll make me feel better. And it may just give everyone around me the courage to speak up as well.

Back to the line-cutting prick... The cashier ignored him; she was ringing up the guy who waited patiently to get to the front of the line. But, as illiterates are wont to do, he kept insisting himself upon her by waving the twenty in her face. I opened my mouth to say something, but the guy in front of me spoke first: "The line's back there." That's it, that's all he said. He was ignored. The illiterate actually tossed the twenty over the register at the woman tending it and walked out the door. "You're welcome!" I shouted. I got one or two more readers that day when I casually mentioned I write about those people all the time, and told the others where to find the Sanitorium (okay, I hear you... but it's not really prostitution if money isn't exchanged...). I wanted badly to give the address to the line-cutting prick, but he was gone before I got out the door.

Worse examples exist: people running red lights and speeding put others in danger. Shoving past people or barrelling out of aisles with shopping carts can injure someone. If we all keep in mind that everyone's time is valuable to them, and we don't try to impose on one another, we can all remain healthy and happy. And I'll continue wearing my size eleven shoes when I venture out.

They're great for tripping line-cutters.

A Loved Letter

How do I begin? I'm not really sure. Hell, I don't even know why it's hitting me now, I've known for months. And it wasn't something that necessarily surprised me. The one she chose surprised me, I'll say that much. I don't know if she'll be reading this. I know she's been here, but I don't know how often. Once? Twice? Daily? I don't think she was too interested in my ranting, having heard some of it before. But if there's a chance she's going to read this, I have to take that chance. (This is another one that's absent the ranting and swearing, so if you're not interested, move on. But you may learn something about letting go. Or not letting go. It's really hard to say, so I'm just going to get to writing.)

Years ago, we met. We talked for a while before we actually got together, remember? A good year or more. It was pretty difficult, not being able to see you. The phone conversations were wonderful, don't get me wrong. But when we finally decided to meet, in Chicago, I had no idea how difficult it'd end up being living so far apart.

Chicago. Man, what a time that was, huh? I went along with the sight-seeing, but from the time I saw you get off that plane, you were the one thing I couldn't take my eyes off.

Remember the snowstorm? We went into that mall, barely a flake falling, and when we emerged a few hours later, you couldn't see anything but white! We somehow made it back to the hotel, after getting lost. Twice. I remember we ended up at a gas station, asking for directions, and the damn hotel was right behind it! We ended up in the hotel bar, and ordered pizza. Spinach and feta cheese. It was delicious, probably the best pizza I'd ever had; but wasn't that really the company I was keeping? I know it was.

We stayed up late, watching "Sleepless In Seattle" and the irony? We both fell asleep before it was over. Separate beds turned into you crawling into mine.

Two days later, we sat in the lobby, too afraid to say goodbye. We both had lives to get back to; and I told you "It's a good thing this wasn't more than three days." Remember what you said? "I know." I didn't think you understood what I meant; until you told me you did. A kiss and a goodbye, and that was that... until two weeks later...

It was the first time I'd driven that far, seven straight hours (eight, if you count the hour I was lost). We met at that Drury Inn, and I remember getting there and parking next to your car, though I had no idea what you drove. You came out as I was walking in, wearing that sweater I'd left with you. I almost collapsed into your arms, I was so happy. We spent the next six hours together. I drove a total of fourteen hours to spend six hours with you. And on the way home, I cried when I passed the Gateway Arch, because I had no idea what I'd do without you. It was then that I realized I loved you.

Fast forward, two months. I transferred from my job in Columbus to a job in St Louis. For six months, I was happier than I'd ever been. Ever. And then I got in the way of us. And with a last kiss and a tearful goodbye, we weren't "we" anymore. And for the next seven hours, all the way home, I cried. I cried until my face swelled so much I had to pull over at a rest stop and grab a can of soda to hold over my eyes, just to get the swelling to go down.

We've stayed in touch over the last ten years, sometimes talking every single day, even though we were still so far apart. I've heard of the good ones, the bad ones (one of which is still on my list... you know what I mean), and even seen the ugly part of one in particular (yeah... ex-hubby). When WJ and I came to visit, it was the first time I'd seen you in eight years. Know what's funny? I still couldn't take my eyes off you. I know you noticed.

And then there was that little conversation we had on your back porch.

I've loved again, you know that. I've cried to you about a few ladies, and always listened to your counsel (even when I didn't heed the advice).

If I sat and thought about it long enough, I could recall every single second we spent together. Every. Single. One. You could argue that this is about how I can't let go. But I say it's a work in progress, and probably always will be. All our great loves should be. And knowing the circumstances surrounding the man you're going to marry, I just want you to be sure.

Learning to let go is one thing. Learning to love is... wrong.

Drawing a line in the sandbox

Some years ago, when my son was in the first grade, an older kid in fourth grade got it into his head that my boy was an easy target. He started picking on him. It lasted a day and a half before my son caught him on the playground after school and beat the shit out of the kid in front of his friends. A few years later, my ex took my son out of school because a kid in his class was flicking him in the head during class, and my son tired of it. After school, he waited for the kid and his friends to walk by and punched the kid in the face. Once. The kid went crying to the principal, and my son's been in home schooling ever since. I'm not a proponent of violence as a way to solve problems, not at all. But I won't tell you that I think what my son did was wrong, either.

There's been a lot of talk lately about bullying, fueled by the death of Seth Walsh, a 13-year-old boy who, after years of the abuse, hanged himself from a tree in his own backyard. That's right, he was 13. There was also the case of Jaheem Herrera, an 11-year-old who was found hanging in his closet by a belt, dead. Let me say that once more: Jaheem was only 11! An 11-year-old child hung himself because he was tired of kids at his school teasing him! No charges will be filed in either case.

These are just two examples of a growing list of young kids committing suicide due to bullying. The issue of bullying comes up every few years, but only when the bullying causes 1) a kid to kill him or herself; or 2) a kid to take a gun to school with the intent of murdering the offender(s). Am I the only one who finds this unacceptable? We talked this issue over and over when Columbine happened. Did we learn nothing? How in the fuck do we continue allowing this to happen?

Look, folks, we can't have it both ways. We can't preach non-violence and allow kids to aggressively pursue bullying non-violently with name calling and teasing and posting nasty things on Twitter and Facebook about their chosen targets. It's not right that we tell our kids to suck it up, it's only words, and sticks and stones, and all that noise. It's clearly not working, and the reason it's not working is because it is, in fact, BULLSHIT! Words hurt. Take the current mid-term elections. This is the slimiest election year I can ever remember, with the "Taliban Dan" shit, and attacking someone's faith, and accusing others of witchcraft. If a politician can say it hurts their feelings to be called a bad christian, what right do we have to tell our kids that words are only words? We're setting our kids up for failure, not protecting them.

So what's the answer? How about we educate the teachers and the parents? I don't mean a day in some seminar, no no. I mean a month before school starts, we send teachers and parents to classes, three times a week, and educate them on the signs of what bullying looks like. Then, on the first day of school, we make it perfectly clear to all students that bullying will not be permitted, in any form, and the consequences will be severe. Perhaps something for everyone. No sports for the entire year. Automatic 10 point grade drop. Repeat offenders are expelled to study hall for the remainder of the school year and made to repeat that year. And I think we need to give principals the authority to mete out the punishments as they see fit, provided they work within a chosen set of guidelines. If these punishments seem harsh, I thank you. They're meant to sound harsh. When the alternative is kids killing themselves, the punishment for bullying MUST be harsh!

We can no longer afford to continue thinking of bullying as a right of passage, or a symptom of growing up. I'm not naive enough to believe bullying is going to go away, but we must change the rules to accommodate the times in which we live. This isn't the world of twenty years ago.

Remember, it was only eleven years ago when we were watching police and paramedics pulling dead bodies from a school in Denver. And we didn't have Twitter and Facebook in 1999.

Like it or not, "cultural illiterate" equals "retard."

Alright, I'm hearing a few of you loud and clear. You don't like it when I use the word "retard" in describing, well, retards. You think it's a derogatory term. In this I'd agree. But you further think it's a derogatory term for the mentally handicapped. This I disagree with, folks. Now I'll tell you why I feel this way, and why I'll continue to use the term, whether you like it or not.

Someone close to me is autistic. He's a hell of a good guy, just has some trouble in social settings with those he doesn't know. He's usually okay once he's introduced and gets to know you, but until then he retreats into the world of people and things he knows. His sister in an extrovert, and that helps him get over things rather quickly. Still, he's autistic. And if I ever heard someone call him a retard, they'd have a hell of a bigger problem than their personal social graces. I'd also not stand idly by and have someone call a mentally disabled person stupid, retarded, idiot, or any other term I'd consider derogatory if I didn't believe they could adequately defend themselves in that particular situation.

I've said it before, I don't give a fuck what you do in your own house, and I don't particularly care what you do outside it either, as long as it doesn't interfere with my or anyone else's life. You want to use the "N" word in describing a black person, that's fine with me. But unless there are black people around and you're not whispering, don't expect me to keep my mouth shut. And don't expect me to sit by and watch as you commit other social dis-graces, either (far too many examples to give, and I know you're not an idiot, you can figure these out for yourselves). But call someone with a disability names? Fuck you, asshole, ain't going to happen, not when I'm around.

Webster's dictionary defines "retard" as "to delay or slow the progress of." Are you honestly trying to tell me that this isn't EXACTLY what I've been talking about here at the Sanitorium? A culturally illiterate person or group is retarding the progress of what we call civilized society. If you want a partial list of who these people are, read the very first blog entry. The term's not derogatory for a handicapped person, though I suppose you could make the argument that the assholes I speak of are, indeed, mentally handicapped. But why split hairs? Retard's a verb. I use it as a noun because I'm not going to add "er" at the end; it doesn't have the same impact.

Maybe I should use the term "fucktard" instead.

Pro-Choice: It's not just for abortions anymore.

Know what I really hate? Alright, alright, stop the snickering. I'll re-phrase: Know what ELSE I really hate? People who tell me one thing, then change their minds and try to tell me I was mistaken in what I was told. Nope, that just doesn't work for me. It doesn't exactly fall under the category of "Don't piss up my leg and tell me it's raining." More like "Did you just piss on my leg?" "Yes, my mistake." "Why did you do it?" "Do what?" "Piss on me?" "I didn't, it must've been rain."

See what I'm saying? But I'll take it one step further: not only do you tell me you didn't do it, you act offended that I'd accuse you of such a thing. Basically call me a liar. This very thing happened to me yesterday.

I offered someone some cash (long story, and to tell it I'd have to give a name- or a moniker- so I'll just give you the basics). Said person turned the offer down, saying they'd be fine without it. I decide to use the money to purchase some pictures for my niece of her new baby, and buy some suds (something I couldn't do when taking the vicodins, and I wanted some for the opening weekend of college football). Only after I mentioned these things did this person ask "Are you going to give me any money?" I asked for what, and was told I offered, so was I going to do it? This immediately angered me, but I thought 'Okay, I offered, perhaps I should go ahead and do it.' But first, I had to make clear to this person that they'd turned the offer down once. "Yeah, I guess, but you told me you didn't need any." "I didn't say that! I said I didn't need as much as you offered!" Nope, nope, and, uhh, nope. I have a VERY good memory (especially when the vics aren't in play, which they weren't), and I know exactly what was said. And looking at this person, I could see in their face they knew it, as well. "Yes, I'll give you some money," I say, smiling and shaking my head (which I KNEW would anger them... I figured, share the wealth, right? Meaning the anger, not the money, Roundtowners). It certainly had the intended effect. I got a "Keep your money!" and a very melodramatic exit from the room.

I'm all for choices. There's honestly not one person in this world, NOT A SINGLE ONE, who doesn't have a choice. You hear it all the time: "I didn't have a choice." Hell, even I've said it, but in truth we all have a choice, even if the choice is to live or die, or to allow someone else to live or die. So, if you make a choice and wish to change your mind, that's alright with me. It's one of the most basic human rights, to make your mind up for yourself. As long as that choice doesn't affect my right to also choose, have at it! But don't make a decision and then lie to me and say "I didn't say, mean, intend, think, iterate, portend, or CHOOSE that." It pisses me off, and it's the quickest way to make me an enemy. It's difficult for me to trust someone who's outright lied to me, to say nothing of someone who tries to make a liar OUT OF me.

This has happened with this same person once before. That time, it ended in a shouting match and the silent treatment imposed on me for a few days. This time, I didn't give this person the satisfaction. If they won't talk to me, that's fine. I have nothing to say. I laid a fifty-dollar bill right where they could find it, and it was still sitting there this morning. I told this person that if it was still there when I got back, it was mine and I would spend it as found money. I'm not going over this ground again, so you'll never know for sure what happened. But I can tell you that if history serves, that money will be gone. And that's alright with me, it was offered, turned down, asked for again, and given. My responsibility has ended. Their responsibility is to thank me. I'm not holding my breath.

That is, after all, their choice.

Are you ready for some footbawl?

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We now return you to our regularly scheduled progamming...

Neighbors. We all have them; whether they're a few feet or a mile away, we all have them. Some are nice, bring us things like cookies or frozen treats. Some aren't so nice, bring us dog and cat shit on our front lawns or toss our mail in the garbage when they receive it by mistake. My parents have one of each. The neighbors to the right are a nice old couple that occasionally cut the ditch in the front yard with the riding mower they own, simply because it's easier than my dad doing it with his push mower (and his bad back, and his arthritis, and those ungodly white legs of his). They've brought my parents Christmas cookies, and my mother's delivered a tasty frozen concoction made with strawberries, Cool Whip, and Oreo cookies. They get along just fine. And where would the fun be in talking any more on the subject of their good neighbors, when they have a perfectly good, perfectly ignorant, dumbfuck of a bona fide cultural illiterate living on the opposite side? You want the ranting and raving? Hang out and enjoy!

First, a little background on said dumbfuck: his wife, according to him, is in a mental institution, because she's mentally unstable (gee, really, is that why?). His daughter's currently serving time for theft... of HIS Jeep. And recently dumbfuck moved into his girlfriend's house (and back), but when he left, he also left his unemployed 18-year old son behind to fend for himself (and trust me, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, which makes the fact of his being left alone all the more tragic). Dumbfuck rides his motorcycle when it's raining, takes his pick-up truck when the sun's shining, refuses to keep his lawn cut, and oh yeah, did I mention he has a beagle puppy he keeps outside ALL THE TIME? He had two dogs before that which disappeared. I don't know, don't want to know. There are so many examples of illiteracy I could pick apart, but I'm going to stick to the two that directly involve yours truly. After all, you want it from the horse's mouth, right?

The first and second interactions I had with him were very similar, both involving trees he has in his front yard. One's more a bush, I suppose, but the other's a crabapple tree. The "bush" is quite large and the branches stick out every which way, leaning out so far they nearly hang out into the road (this is a country road, 45 MPH until a quarter mile north of Roundtown, where it hits 55 MPH). Exiting my parent's driveway, it's nearly impossible to see what's coming through the branches. When my mother mentioned this to me one day, I asked why they didn't just cut it back to where they had a clear line of sight? Not getting the response I really needed, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I took the electric trimmer they have and cut the branches back. I suppose I should mention dumbfuck wasn't even living there at the time, it was when he was staying with his girlfriend. By sheer luck, he came back that day. The branches were obviously cut back, and I happened to be on the front porch when he pulled in his driveway.

"Did you see who cut my tree?" he asked.

"Yep. I did. It was blocking the view out of the driveway, and it makes it dangerous for my parents to pull out onto the road."

"I'd appreciate it if you asked next time." And he begins to walk away, as if the conversation's over. It might have been, but what'd we talk about in regards to the culturally illiterate? Right! Education! So, I tried to educate him. It obviously didn't work; I already said there were TWO examples I was going to discuss, didn't I, Roundtowners? Keep up, now, so far so good...

I responded "I'll ask, but the result will be the same. If those branches are blocking the view, they're going to be cut." He turned around, as if he were going to respond, then didn't. He just looked at me and walked away. The next thing I hear is banging and cursing coming from his garage. Perhaps he's not used to being talked to that way. Perhaps he's upset he didn't have a good comeback. Who the fuck knows. For that matter, who the fuck cares? I took the book I was reading back inside, and that was that. Pretty tame, right? No big deal. But the SECOND time, well... that was a tad different...

The crabapple tree hangs out over my 'rents' driveway turn-around. It's summer, so they're abundant on the tree, and in fact make a mess my mother sweeps into dumbfuck's yard when they cut the grass. Many crabapples equals a lot of weight on the branches, and they hang quite low. Low enough, in fact, to scrape the top of my parent's van when they turn it around. Electric trimmer, anyone? This time, I cut the tree back to the property line. It looks really funny, actually; one half of the tree's huge, the other's a bunch of stumpy branches. Looking at it after, I actually burst into fits of laughter I couldn't quite control. This was the cause of the escalation in the argument I had with the dumbfuck when he came home.

Knock knock. The door opens and an angry, red-faced neighbor is standing there, asking my dad who cut his apple tree. "I did!" I shouted from the couch, and stepped around to the door.

"You have no right to cut down my tree, that's MY tree, it's on MY property!"

"Wrong. It's hanging onto THIS property, and that makes the branches I cut THEIR property. THEIR property was scratching the roof of THEIR van. So I cut the offensive branches back." (I type this a bit more eloquently than was the language actually used, but hey, creative license and all that.)

"You can't do that without my permission! I know the law!" (Isn't it funny how people who don't have a leg to stand on think the law is always on their side?) "I'll get a conjunction against you!" A... CONJUNCTION? I couldn't help it, there was never any doubt the laughter was going to burst out, so I didn't even try to hold it in. And it did burst out, like a fucking volcano! If I'd have been taking a sip of beer, dumbfuck would've had a faceful of foam!

This guy was PISSED! He turned as red as those fucking apples he's complaining about, and that association made me double over! The thought of that tree, the "conjunction," and the beet-red face on this dumbfuck was more than I could take! I closed the door on him, still laughing, and heard the small gate my parents use to keep the dog on the porch skid across the driveway as Mr Grumpy took his leave. I laughed for next 20 minutes, my mom joining in, my dad shaking his head the whole time and wondering if things would get worse.

Look, ladies and gentlemen, if I already know you're one of the illiterates I pontificate about in the Sanitorium, and you make yourself an ACTUAL illiterate by showing the type of ignorance dumbfuck demonstrated to me, expect to be laughed at. I may not be the smartest guy in the world, but I paid attention during the Saturday morning cartoons of my youth, and Schoolhouse Rock in particular, and I know what a conjunction is...

It's that little train with the words on it... right?

Don't you hate that fucking song "Seasons in the Sun?"

Okay, I don't know exactly how to begin, so I'm just going to... well, begin. I'm going to get all warm and fuzzy on you guys tonight, so if that's not your gig, not your scene, not what gets your wizzy woo off, skip it. This is one just for me. This one's something I need to write for the simple fact of a simple pleasure. And if you don't give a fuck about me personally, if you only come to the show for the bitching and ranting (and I'm not complaining, I'm just happy you show up at all!), then you'll just have to wait until the next post. But if you've ever lost touch with someone that reminds you of who you were, and how far you've come, or how far you still need to go... read on. You are, as always, welcome to come along.

I'm a Facebook guy. I have a few friends there, ones that I genuinely give a shit about. I may not always send a message asking how they are, but I always remember their birthdays! (Here's a big old *wink nudge* for those of you on FB who also never forget a birthday...) I seek out people I know, people I've met on other sites, and people I've lost touch with over the years. I've reconnected with old girlfriends, old I-wish-they'd-been-my-girlfriends, and old high school buddies. It's a lot of fun catching up. But tonight was different. Tonight was special. Tonight I reconnected with a guy I haven't seen in fifteen years. Before that, I hadn't seen him in ten, when he told me he was moving to West Virginia, which was about to get a whole lot more wild. And certainly more wonderful.

I was a sheltered kid growing up. Always reading, always got the good grades, didn't listen to any music my parents didn't own. But then I met a guy who showed me what being a kid was all about. He introduced me to football, and pick-up games of baseball, and basketball. We smoked our first cigarettes together, and we cut our first classes together (oh, shut the fuck up, we were kids; and all kids, even yours, try stupid shit!). We stole his brother's car and took our first joyride. We saw Star Wars and Indiana Jones in the theater first, not DVD. We sat in awe of his grandmother's car that spoke to us (a Chrysler New Yorker that said "the door is ajar, the door is ajar"), before there was GPS. We watched the first video on MTV, before there were no videos on MTV. We were going to grow up to be sports stars, and comic book artists, and we were going to be rich and marry Tina if she quit being such a bitch, or Debbie if she lost the glasses, or Joan because she had a trampoline. We were best friends, and we were always going to be best friends. Then, life happened.

He left for WVA and we lost touch. By the time I saw him again, I was already dating after my divorce. He had his wife and baby girl with him. We spent maybe an hour catching up before he left. I haven't seen or heard from him since.

I looked him up on google tonight. It showed his name on Facebook. Now, I'd looked him up on FB months ago, but he wasn't there, so I figured it wasn't him. But, when I pulled the page up, it WAS him. I immediately sent him a friend request, and he approved it less than three minutes later. I wrote this on his wall: "You still look like a smarta$$! *L* How are you, my friend?!" He sent me his phone number, and we talked for so long his phone died. (Fuck you, man, mine's still working... so it was either that or you hung up on me; I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt!) We talked about... life. That's really all you need to know. We've both had our ups and downs, like the rest of you. We've been knocked down and fucked around and stepped in our fair share of shit. We've grown. But tonight, we got to revisit a bit, just a tiny bit, of our youth. Talking to JC, I wasn't a guy with two kids I miss constantly, and back child support to pay, and arthritis so bad I'm on medical leave from my job. Talking to Jake tonight, I was just a kid hanging out with my best friend again. The hair's not as long, the knees don't work as well, and flag football's well beyond me. But I never knew how fresh and sweet and... kind, a memory could be. Yes, that word feels exactly right: kind.

Thank you, Jake. I love you, my friend. See you in two weeks.

Shenanigans or not, advice columnist the one with the problem

Dear Mick,

I'm writing in regards to a letter written to "Dear Abby" in Sunday's edition of The Columbus Dispatch this week. The woman writing the letter asked for advice on how to break up the marriage of her best friend from her husband so that the writer could have him for herself (the writer is also married). Apparently, the friend's husband is more successful and has more material items than her own, and she's "always been attracted to him." Of course, Abby replied that the writer must be a new reader of her column; otherwise she'd know Abby doesn't give advice on that sort of thing. I am, of course, paraphrasing.

My problem is this: If you know you're not going to answer the question, and you print it anyway, does it not lend validity to the letter? And if this is the case, why print it in the first place? Thoughts?

Confused

Dear Confused,

I am going to take what you said a step further and call "shenanigans" on Miss Abby (she's actually not the REAL Abby, but her daughter, Jeanne Phillips, who took over the column after her mother, Pauline Phillips, died in 2002). I believe what she's done in this case is invented a false article, merely for shock-value. The media has been doing this sort of thing for years, but there's a difference in what I believe Ms Phillips has done and what they do on the idiot box.

During May sweeps on television, networks use all sorts of tricks and treats to boost ratings. Everything from big name movie stars in guest roles, to surprise weddings and proposals, to the deaths of major characters. It's all part of the big money game the networks play against each other, and at times it can be a lot of fun. No harm no foul, as they say, and it leaves folks salivating in anticipation of the fall season.

However, when someone who writes an advice column, someone people go to for assistance, sometimes out of desperation, takes this route, the route of inventing stories to gain readership, it's not only childish and petty, but irresponsible. Now, is it possible that this letter is the real deal? That someone was stupid enough, had the unmitigated temerity in them to actually expect an answer to a question such as this? If you're asking that question, you've stumbled on this blog by mistake! These assholes DO exist, they're called the "culturally illiterate." But something about it just doesn't ring true. Doesn't make sense. Regardless of it's validity, it's irresponsible to print it.

Ms Phillips, you'll never be your mother, and you'll always be her shadow. But I suggest if you want to write fiction, write fiction. Call it "Dear Abby."

A retarded monkey comes through for me!

Just when I thought things had calmed down, another fine example of human ignorance presents itself, and I again return to the Sanitorium. Not that I don't see these examples every day! It's just that they're things we all experience, every day, all the time, and I like to give you something new to think about. You might say I've been given a gift... at the expense of my beautiful, seventeen year-old daughter.

My daughter starts her senior year in high school this month. I know, I don't look near old enough to have a daughter that age, I get that all the time (yeah, right). She plays the trumpet in the high school band, and has worked very hard for the past four years to make lead, and this year she's it! I'm extremely proud of her, and was looking forward to a few stories from band camp, which she'd left for on Monday. Yesterday, Friday, I got a call from my ex-wife telling me a story I didn't want, nor ever expected, to hear.

Apparently on Monday, she fell down and hurt her knee. I don't know what caused the fall because once her mother picked her up, they went straight to the ER and the doctor there put her on pain meds, so she's a bit tired, a bit loopy. The story my ex is telling me is that she pulled up Friday to pick my daughter up (this is on FRIDAY, keep this in mind, Roundtowners), and she's hobbling along toward the car. Even the other parents are apparently asking what happened, because my daughter's knee is facing the opposite one and her foot's still pointed straight ahead. The picture I get in my head when thinking about this is making me very angry, and I don't believe it has anything to do with the steroid regimen I've been on for the last month. I mean, what would you feel? Concern, certainly, anger, absolutely, but what I experienced when my ex was telling me this was flat-out, no-holds-barred RAGE! Now, you might be asking yourself "Why is he this angry, this enraged? Kids get hurt, don't they?" Yes they do. Indeed they do get hurt. I'm going to tell you why my anger, even as I type this, is building yet again.

No one, not one person, called my ex to let her know what happened. NO. ONE. AND, they didn't take my daughter to the ER when it happened. Let me say that again for the other retarded monkeys who weren't in attendance at this camp: NO ONE CALLED AND NO ONE TOOK MY DAUGHTER TO THE ER WHEN SHE FELL AND INJURED HERSELF! ON MONDAY! IT'S FRIDAY! Who the fuck was running this show?! Who, exactly, is the incompetent fuckhead who was in charge, and where the fuck did his tiny brain take it's vacation this week?! Oh, but wait right there, friends, this gets SOOO much better...

When my ex asked the retarded-monkey-fuckhead-who's-brain-picked-this-week-to-take-it's-vacation in charge if she was seen by a doctor, his reply was: she said she didn't need to go to the ER. Now, I can see my daughter saying this, maybe even believing it. But the fact of the matter is SHE'S SEVENTEEN! AND there was not one goddamned phone call to her mother making her aware of the situation, so that her mother could make the decision! Seriously?! I mean, SERIOUSLY?! Are you getting the picture? They let a seventeen year-old girl diagnose herself as okay to continue practicing marching formations on a knee that was clearly (even to parents casually strolling by to pick up their own kids) injured. Now, I've been through a knee injury, a very serious injury, in fact. It required surgery, and left me without an ACL and sans cartilage in my left knee. And after much physical therapy and drugs and crutches for months and a knee brace I still use occasionally, I can get around. And that's it. If there were a crazed gunman after my sorry ass for calling him a retarded-monkey-fuckhead-who's-brain-picked-this-week-to-take-it's-vacation, I'm fucked. I can't run on it. I can't take a jump-shot. I can't even do push-ups to stay in shape. But I'm mumble-mumble years old, and those things aren't as important to me as they might be to, say, a SEVENTEEN YEAR-OLD GIRL WHO HASN'T EVEN MADE IT OUT OF HIGH SCHOOL YET!

So, after she was seen by her doctor, who determined her knee was "loose," she has an appointment for an MRI on Wednesday. And I'll admit, it worries me. But what worries me the most is the disappointment my daughter will feel if she's kept from marching in her high school band her senior year. As the lead. A position she's worked so fucking hard to achieve.

I thought I'd take a bunch of peeled bananas to Sheridan High School in Perry County, Ohio for the retarded monkey who's clearly incapable of peeling his own. But I'm too afraid of my own anger for that. Because when it comes to my kids...

King Kong ain't got nothin' on me. Even a retarded King Kong.

On this, the (ass)holiest of days...

Well, it's here. And it couldn't have come on a better day. It's Sunday. And the subject of religion will finally be discussed. As I believe I've mentioned, I'd been looking for a way to bridge the subject, and lo and behold, it's a preacher who gives me the reason. As a guy once said: "Holy shit!"

Nicholas Peck was drinking in a sports bar called Half Time in Deland, Florida early last Saturday morning when he was confronted by Minister Barnard Courtney, Jr. Courtney apparently called Peck a sinner, and Peck took exception to this. He got into a scuffle with Courtney and delivered a headbutt. Now, whether or not the man was drunk is a non-issue. It's none of Minister Fuckhead's business what Peck does with his time. I'm thinking what the minister needs is a hobby that doesn't involve promoting cultural illiteracy. Not only that, police in the area say it's the latest in an increase in disputes between street preachers and bar patrons. What?! This shit actually goes on somewhere?! Who the fuck do these ministers, preachers, reverends think they are? If I want to be saved, I'll call 911, thanks.

As you can probably gather, I'm not a religious person. I do not believe in a higher power that rules a paradise in the sky, nor do I believe in an evil deity that rules a pit of fire beneath our feet. I'm not saying religion is a bad thing. If it weren't for religion, half the wars in history would never have been fought, and war's good for the economy, right? If it weren't for religion, the Catholic church wouldn't have had several young boys to sexually abuse and consequently add a little cash to said boys' bank accounts. And certainly Dan Brown wouldn't be where he is today if it weren't for religion. Oh, and I guess it also gives believers comfort in times of need, and sinners who repent on their deathbeds hope that they'll live forever. I, personally, think it's all bullshit. If a few of the relatives I no longer speak to were to read this, I'd get phone calls and e-mails and texts and letters out the poop-shoot for saying these things. See, for a time, when I was much younger, I was raised Catholic (I am, after all, Irish). I was even given a copy of the longest and bestselling fictional short story collection ever written (uhh, that's the Bible, Roundtowners) embossed with my name. So I've received the message, and chosen to ignore it in favor of common-fucking-sense. Did you know the majority of scientists believe there are four distinct types of parallel universes? That same majority does not believe a god exists. Get that? More scientists believe there's an evil Spock with a goatee somewhere out there than believe an old guy in a white robe and sandals is waiting to spank us if we misbehave!

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those guys who's going to tell you that going to church on Sunday is a waste of time. In fact, I like that a few of the assholes aren't driving around town when I'm gathering supplies for the day's football games. I AM going to tell you to keep it to yourself. I occasionally hear the phrase "I'll pray for you" when something bad happens like a family member dies or some other tragedy. I think this is very kind, and it's very much appreciated. It means someone cares about me enough to take the time to include me in something they do, perhaps, every day. I would never DREAM of saying to that person "Save it, honey, there's no god, and if you were half as intelligent as I look, you'd drop the religious act and get yourself to the nearest pub and have a few screwdrivers and maybe even take a screw-driver home and fuck him in the bed you share with your husband because clearly he's not getting the job done if you have nothing better to do than pray for a guy you don't really know all that well, and hey, I'm not doing anything right now, why don't I join you for that drink and I'll take care of you myself?" Why, then, do the Jesus-freaks think it's okay to speak to strangers of religion? What makes it alright for them to try to "save" me, but it's not alright for me to try to educate them about why the concept of the existence of a god is no more than a fairy tale? Because it's their right to believe. And it's my right not to believe. One of us is correct in our beliefs, and the others are food for worms and just won't accept the fact.

Back to Peck and Courtney. Steve Irwin, the crocodile guy, went swimming with stingrays and was stabbed in the heart. He died. Dawn Brancheau, the sea world trainer, got in a tank with Tilikum, a killer whale linked to two other human deaths. She died. Timothy Treadwell, the bear activist, thought of the grizzly bears he was studying as his "friends" and lived in close proximity to them in a tent. He AND his girlfriend died, mauled and eaten by the very bears he was trying to protect. My point is, if you put yourself in a dangerous situation, you deserve whatever happens to you. Harsh? Maybe. True? Absolutely! And Courtney did just that when he decided to preach sin to a man exiting a bar, a man he didn't know from (HA!) Adam, didn't know how many drinks he'd had or whether he was a mean or violent man when he drank. He got what he deserved. He should count his blessings it wasn't worse than a few bumps and bruises.

And that, friends, is the Gospel of Mick.

An Apology...

Someone very dear to me is gay. It took a lot of courage to come-out, and when she did, she met with quite a bit of resistance. She'd gone to counselors, three different ones, all of which told her it was perfectly alright to have these feelings, that there was nothing wrong with her. When she came-out to me, I was very supportive, told her that it didn't change anything, I still cared for her as much as I always had, but that she'd meet with resistance from certain sections of our society all her life. Unfortunate but true. Since, she's proudly told me about the woman she's dating (recently they've broken up), and sometimes she'll even cry on my shoulder. I'm intensely proud of her for what she's done. It was probably the reason for the knee-jerk reaction I had to the Brad Pitt story I posted in "Quoth the t-shirt..." Boy, was I ever wrong...

A friend who reads my blog, Julie, has set me straight on the facts about Brad Pitt's feelings toward marriage (thank you, Julie, I owe you). He supports it whole-heartedly. He donated $100,000 to the cause to fight the ban on gay marriage in California. At one point he and Angelina Jolie stated they would not marry until the ban on gay marriage was lifted, and that everyone was given equal rights. In other words, I owe Mr Pitt, Ms Jolie, and all of you an apology. I dropped the ball on this one, certainly. I really DID see the story on HLN (it may have actually been CNN), but I think I was so blinded by concern for my gay friend that I missed a word or two in the caption; I saw "Brad Pitt against gay marriage" instead of "Brad Pitt against BAN ON gay marriage." And instead of doing a little research first, I simply sat here at my keyboard and typed the post. It was wrong of me to do that, especially when I actually research such posts as the one on cigarette packs and the BP oil spill. Why did I believe that it wasn't necessary to investigate this further before ranting my big mouth off? I don't have an answer, or a good excuse, for that. I fucked up, friends. Hopefully it's the last time, but it probably won't be. Everyone errs, including those of us who claim to be right 99.999% of the time. But never let it be said that I won't be the first to admit when I'm wrong.

It would've been easy to simply remove the post (I think... I've never tried it), but I don't think that's fair. I shall leave it up, so that everyone who reads this will know where and when I fucked up, dropped the ball, laid the egg. I feel you have that right. If I'm going to bitch and scream about others, I have to be big enough to admit when I'm wrong. I'm not, after all, a politician.

In closing, I'd once again like to apologize to Mr Pitt and all of you who were mislead by my post. I still think it was a douche bag thing for Mr Pitt to accept a ride from the TMZ guys and not even thank them. But who's the bigger douche bag: the guy who's pompous and arrogant enough to accept a ride without thanks? Or the guy who blogs what boils down to a lie?

I shamefully raise my hand.

See Dick. Dick is a penis.

Since it was going to be a long weekend, I decided to hit the library and check-out a few movies (and one book). I got a few I'd seen a dozen times but thought I could watch whilst "internetting" (the one in now is "Dark Knight"... damn, we lost Mr Ledger too soon), and a few for later in the evening when I was relaxing with a beer. This isn't the first time I've borrowed movies from the library, and not the first time for the issues I'm about to speak of; but I wasn't writing a blog then. Now that I have an outlet to post my grievances, that's precisely what I'm going to do.

The movie I "watched" last night was "The Final Destination." (Notice those quotation marks bracketing the word "watched", Roundtowners? What'd we say those meant? That's right! It means that word has significance, very good!) It was one of those movies I felt I had an obligation to watch, since I'd viewed the other three, but not one I was willing to shell out hard-earned cash to see. So, once I was finished posting the poem (it's right there, look down a post), I popped in the flick. It wasn't ten (excruciatingly long) minutes before the first "pause and skip." You know, when a movie inexplicably pauses and then skips ahead and you miss what may have been an important line or plot-point? (Not that there was ANY danger of that in this movie... there'd been no danger of that in any of the other three, why would they start now?) I ejected the disc to clean it, and found this was not the major issue. The disc was so scratched to hell that no amount of winding through my cleaner would've done any good. As I said, experience has taught me that this would be a futile effort (though it apparently hasn't taught me to look at the disc before I put it in the player). Some of these DVDs actually work, even when they're scratched so much they look like the UFO "runways" from Peurta Inca, Peru. What the fuck are these idiots doing with the discs?! Playing frisbee-tag?

DVDs aren't the only items that return desecrated to the library (yes I said desecrated; to those who want to further educate themselves, even through horror movies, these items are sacred). I'd checked-out a Spider Man graphic novel for my son, hoping he'd enjoy the web-slinger as much as I had growing up (he didn't, not really... he's got his video games). Halfway through, there was a two-page layout missing. Someone had used a blade of some kind to remove the pages and likely have them up on their bedroom wall. Those two pages meant four pages of story line, and once that happened, it took my son right out of the story. Damn it. He likes to read, don't get me wrong, but I thought in my heart of hearts that perhaps we could find something the both us might enjoy together (he's a Harry Potter fan, I'm not). I tried others from the Circleville library, but most, and I mean MOST of them had the same problem. I can't say for certain that kids are the ones doing this, but I'd bet a paycheck that teens are responsible for 99% of the missing pages. That means that a lot of the blame falls on the parents of these little assholes. Keep a better eye on your kids, know what they're up to, and this can be prevented a lot of the time. Not all the time, I get that. I do, after all, have a mischievous 17-year-old daughter myself (we parents who don't want to use the word "asshole" when describing our own kids say "mischievous"). But I know she wouldn't destroy a piece of property that wasn't her own!

Look, fuckhead, the library is for everyone, okay? How would you feel if you checked-out a book and found the second chapter missing? Wait, bad example, there's NO WAY you cocksuckers read books. In fact, I'd bet another paycheck your personal library consists of a two-week-old "Star" magazine that's slipped behind the toilet. Better example for the illiterates: you get right to the end of a good movie and the thing pauses and won't start again. It'd suck, right? Of course it would. We need to take care of the things we check out of the library. A lot of them are donated materials that might not be in the library's budget to purchase, and when they're returned in less than good condition, the rest of us lose out. Not that this is going to get through to you. You have that "I don't give a fuck" attitude. You're a fucking asshole who thinks (s)he's the only one in the world and fuck anyone else that happens along.

It gets exasperating trying to educate the illiterates, especially knowing they'll never read what I write. Hopefully some of you normal folks are reading and taking these words to heart. How can our society ever evolve if we allow these people who don't give a shit to have the same freedoms the rest of us earn every day by being responsible citizens? Ain't gonna happen.

In closing, I'm going to attempt to explain things so that the illiterates who mistakingly find this page can understand:

See Dick.
See Dick check a comic book out of the library.
See Dick take it home and flip the pages.
Oh! Dick has found a picture he likes!
See Dick get an x-acto knife to remove the pages.
See Dick get "karma-lized" when he cuts off the tip of his middle finger.
Aww, don't be sad, Dick.
I have a middle finger for you!

A poem for the 4th (or: Dr Seuss I ain't)

Recently, I spoke to an old friend of mine. She was asking what I've been up to, and I mentioned Sanctimonious Sanitorium, because I've come to be quite enamored by the whole blog thing. After she'd read it she asked if I ever wrote poetry anymore (I got the idea the blog wasn't her favorite thing). That got me thinking how much fun it'd be to write a poem about the blog. So I pulled up the appropriate Word program and began writing. I was actually surprised at how easily it flowed. Is it good? I don't know, I think it's written by a guy that hasn't written poetry in a long time. That being said, I'd say the general idea is conveyed.


Ode to the Culturally Illiterate (What the fuck else would I call it?!)


So far, in this blog, what have we learned?
If your an illiterate, it's a title you've earned.
It seems that their number grows every day,
Is there an end in sight? No way, Jose.

They teach their kids manners that leave us all shocked,
Yet proclaim loudly "He's a chip off the ol' block!"
The next generation will not be the last.
They're sure to take over if we fail to act fast.

With the WMS and the NIMBY's growth strong,
We must strive to educate and right all their wrongs.
And if that means yelling at the top of your voice
"Get with the program, asshole!" you have little choice.

Call out the racist who whispers in crowds,
Because he's too big a coward to say it out loud.
Let your presence be known, and your view exposed.
We can no longer afford to keep our mouths closed.

Use strong words, unafraid to be blunt.
Words like prick, asshole, fucker and cunt.
Bitch, dickhead, and yes, motherfucker.
And please don't forget the old stand-by: cocksucker.

It's high time we show these folks we mean business
And we're not going to stand here as merely a witness.
The actions we take will be swift and dealt hard
So that maybe you'll get the message, retard.

I've offended a few with the words that I've used.
And I'm sorry for that (no, I'm actually amused).
Many have no idea what the words really say.
Fail to read between the lines and you're lost anyway.

In closing I'll say have a nice holiday,
Be safe celebrating our Independence day.
And to the cultural illiterate who blows off his hands?
One less asshole.

Quoth the t-shirt: 'Silence is golden, duct tape is silver'

Yes, friends, it seems even celebrities can be among the culturally illiterate (I actually don't believe this is anything new to anyone, but I needed an opening line, and the coffee hasn't kicked in just yet). This thought occurred to me once again when I picked up the Columbus Dispatch newspaper and read the "Dear Abby" column this morning (yes, I read this rip-off of a more revered- and much wiser- version of the original).

It was one of those columns where she shares reader feedback on some advice she'd previously given to some ne'er-do-well. In this case, an obese woman had wanted to know if it was okay to use the handicapped facilities in a public restroom, even though she's "technically" not handicapped. It seems she's "uncomfortable" in the smaller stalls. Well, "Abby" advised her it was fine as long as someone who was actually handicapped didn't arrive at the same time and needed the stall. The reader response was, to say the least, contrary. And who'd blame them? Obesity has been called a disease, but the cure doesn't cost us any money in research and funding: PUT THE FUCKING FORK DOWN! With the money you'd save if you quit buying Ho-Ho's and Ding Dongs you could buy a fucking treadmill! I'm not "fat-bashing," I'm not a small guy myself, but at least I recognize the problem is mine, and not the fast food companies who sell me their tasty wares. Now that we're all warmed up, I'm going to tell you why I'll no longer watch a movie starring that pit-faced, arrogant little asshole Brad Pitt.

It all started when I happened to catch Headline News at work. Idiot Pitt was coming out- against gay marriage. Look, I'm all for freedom of speech, hopefully you all know that by now, but when you're in the public eye and express your views, you have to expect a few comments. If not criticisms. He's married to a fucking bi-sexual, first of all. A bi-sexual that makes-out with her brother, sick bitch. And he's against gay marriage... hmmm... I can't be the only one who finds this odd, can I? Personally, I believe gay marriage is perfectly alright. Marriage and having babies should not HAVE to go hand-in-hand. So if this is what the bible-thumpers and the gay-bashers are concerned about, quit it. There are plenty of married couples out there who don't have kids. And there are far more married couples that do have kids who shouldn't. No one's going to debate me on that one, are they? Good, because I'm right, and you know it. Anyway, the fact that this asshole gets himself on a national news program condemning gay marriage is not only stupid, but downright ignorant. Unfortunately Tom Cruise's couch-hopping fiasco has affected his career more than this brick Brad Pitt's dropped will probably affect his. Why? Religion (this is a subject I've been trying to figure out how to come to in this blog... and I will, soon). Most religious people are under the false impression that the church and it's ideals are infallible. Not so. Did you know, for instance, that there was a time when the catholic church not only advocated prostitution, but embraced it? I mean, literally EMBRACED it, as in cardinals having sex with prostitutes! But I digress...

There was a second occasion when I saw Pitt-face acting in a way that caused me to deem him a culturally illiterate person. After the HLN bomb, I went hunting for more things Pitt on the only website where I knew, beyond a doubt, I'd find dirt: TMZ. If you're one of those people who think Harvey Levin doesn't deserve to be paid for running around chasing celebs and catching them at their (sometimes) worst, you may be right. His photogs do all the work. But he's a lawyer, dammit, and he's entertaining and I like him, so fuck you. However, if you're one of these people who think celebs should just be left alone, that the paparazzi have no right doing what they're doing, you are (sing it!) a fucking idiot. If you choose the profession, that means you get all the perks that come with it including: being chased by cameras; asked for autographs; and being heavily scrutinized for your actions. In this case, Pitt-face had broken down by the side of the road. The TMZ photogs saw it, pulled over and offered a ride, which Pitt accepted. The photog in the back seat asked him a few questions, to which Pitt answered with complete silence, until he finally spoke up and said "This isn't an interview, guys." Uh, what? So, they get him to his meeting (which he was apparently late for) and he got out. No "thank you," nothing. "Not even a 'thank you?'" asked the photog from the back seat. "You should be thanking me," said Pitt-face and strolled off. Uh, what? I used to like Pitt-face's work. "Interview With The Vampire," the "Ocean's" movies, I really enjoyed them. But it seems he's caught that most unfortunate "disease" a lot of celebrities fall victim to when they become successful: a sense of entitlement, the most undesirable condition a celeb can have because it makes them different. Not that a lot of people don't have an undeserved sense of entitlement (actually, I don't believe in a DESERVED sense of entitlement). But for a celebrity, whose fans want to believe their favorite actors are not all that different from themselves, it can mean the difference between success and a life on the D-list. You can not alienate your fan-base. It's the fastest detour from a life of luxury to a life of humility.

And if most celebrities would learn the latter first, the former may be an easier responsibilty to carry.

Disingenuous my black ass lung.

To get things started, I'd like for you to see the first paragraph of an article that ran in the June 14th edition of The USA Today newspaper:

By Rita Rubin, USA TODAY
In anticipation of a ban against using words such as "light" or "mild" on cigarette labels and ads, tobacco companies have lightened package colors to convey the same message, a move the American Lung Association and Rep. Henry Waxman, D-Calif., have attacked as disingenuous.


Webster's Dictionary defines "disingenuous" as "lacking frankness, sincerity, or simplicity; crafty, not straighforward."


First and foremost, this Rita Rubin is a poor excuse for a reporter. She words this as if it's something new the cigarette companies are doing in an attempt to camouflage the truth about their products. Do your research, you stupid bitch, this isn't anything new. Show of hands: how many of you didn't know the difference in the color of a Marlboro Light cigarette pack as opposed to a Marlboro Full-Flavor cigarette pack? Or, at the very least, knew there WAS a difference? Anyone? I knew it, good. Even those of you that don't smoke know there's a difference. And those of you who claim not to know are blowing more smoke up my ass than I am into the ozone.


Cigarette companies have been using different colored packs for as long as I can remember to convey the difference between full-flavor, light, mild, menthol, and even menthol lights are a different shade of green. This is nothing new, as the article would have us believe. Full-flavor Marlboro cigarettes have even been called "Marlboro reds" by people purchasing them! The entire point of the argument this stupid fuck Waxman and the ALA are making isn't about the cigarette companies trying to "get one over" on the American people, but an attempt to justify an argument that should have been made 30 years ago. There's not a single person who smokes that doesn't know a "lights" pack from a "menthol" pack from a "mild" pack. And those of you who are considering taking up the habit will learn or already know yourselves.


You may remember years ago that President Clinton wanted to ban cigarettes altogether. There's NO WAY he consulted anyone in his cabinet before making this announcement. Do you know how much money America would lose if we banned cigarettes? Billions! That a big capital B, friends! We can't afford the loss in revenue from the taxes that come from cigarettes, especially now when there's a war on (granted, a war we never should've been in from the beginning). That money helps to fund the murder spree of our former president. (Before I get hate mail, this is not a slight against the soldiers who are fighting for me and my family and friends. They can't help it that the guy who gave the order was a fucking retard.) And don't try to hand me the stand-by argument that insurance rates increase because of cancer-causing cigarettes. At least give me something new to chew on, instead of showing your ignorance by throwing THAT old bone!


So, Mr Waxman (or Representative Illiterate), who's being disingenuous? The cigarette companies who've complied with the new law and removed the words "light" and "low tar" from their cigarette packs and maintained the colors? Or a desperate, coniving fuck who claims those companies are attempting a "new" tactic? Who, precisely, is being crafty and is not being straightforward? It's guys like you that trample on the constitution and call it acting on "the greater good."


And, unfortunately, that's a cancer none of us can escape.

The Truth About Flats and Blogs

I recently made a trip to Adena hospital in Chilicothe, Ohio to have my foot examined. I'd had trouble walking on it (trouble? full-on fucking impossible, more like it), and figured if I was going to have to stand for nine hours a night, something had to be done. Turns out it was gout, which is to say I have too much uric acid in my blood. When that happens, small crystals form in the extremities, most often the feet and toes, and makes it nearly impossible to get around. Women talk about menstrual pains, and I have no doubt that's bad (I've seen the evidence), but a woman menstruating with a bad case of gout? Lock your doors and hide the knives, kiddies, 'cause you're not getting out alive! The condition is due to overindulgence of food and drink heavy in acidic content like coffee, beer, fish, soda (pop to the mid-westerners), and even ham. When the liver fails to process the acid properly, gout forms. There are a few people in this world I truly despise, but I wouldn't wish that kind of pain on one of them (I would, in fact, wish it on ALL of them). Suffice to say, it hurts like hell. Motrin and lots of water usually does the trick, but in this case my foot had swelled to nearly double it's size, so I thought the best route was to have a doc look at the damn thing and, possibly, get a few powerful pain killers so I could actually sleep. The only hospital in Roundtown is Berger, so I made the trip to Adena in Chilicothe. (No I didn't leave out the facts about Berger Hospital... those that have been there know that what I said is all that needs saying.)

Once in the ER, I had a few very nice (and, truth be told, very attractive) nurses take my blood pressure, temperature, and even gave me a laugh when I told them how much I weigh ("How much do you weigh?" "I don't know." "180, 190?" "Ha! More like 240!" To which she gave me a look of complete and utter disbelief). The wait was minimal, despite the fact they seemed fairly busy, and soon I was sitting in a hallway waiting to be seen. Yes, a hallway. This is the simplest and yet most innovative idea I've seen in a hospital. The patients whose conditions are not severe enough to warrant a room of their own or a small curtained area with a bed are put in a nice comfortable over-sized plush chair in the hallway to await the doctor. Nice idea, huh? I'm not being facetious, I really think this is a fine way to utilize the available room and minimize the wait time for patients. Ingenious! Of course, that being said, it gives someone like me all kinds of ammo for a blog about the culturally illiterate. Yay, me! Bonus, baby!

The first example of these folks came in the form of a mother and her two kids. (Goddamn, people are going to start thinking I hate kids! For the record, I have two, and I love them both dearly... it's your kids I can't stand.) The younger, a girl of maybe six, was being seen for a sore throat. Her older brother, maybe eleven, was playing keep-away with the girl's stuffed dog, or bear, or some stupid thing... it was black, that's all I really know. He was tossing it down the hall (!) and she was sick of it. She'd run after the thing and cry "STOP IT!" at the top of her lungs. Only when a nurse or a doctor would pass by did they calm the fuck down. And mom? On her cell phone. Yep. Sitting right there talking bidness to a friend about the weekend. And people wonder why we need a blog like mine.

Next a man and his daughter are ushered into an actual waiting room. Her leg's in a cast to the knee and she's walking on crutches. Literally, the minute they hit the room, dad's standing at the door waiting. And they aren't two minutes settled when he asks a passing nurse when they'll be seen. This is the most self-centered moron I've seen lately, and remember I live in Roundtown! I've been waiting patiently for fifteen minutes and this fucking jerk-off wants to be seen immediately?! I get it, the kid's in a cast, you're playing the concerned parent, but seriously... the kid has to be seventeen, she's already got the cast on, how fucking urgent is this situation? Are you late for work? Guess what? You have a kid, daddy-o, and if this is the first time you've been late for work because of some emergency involving your kid I'd be very surprised. She certainly doesn't seem any worse for wear, she's not screaming bloody murder due to the pain, so why don't you sit your dumb-ass down and wait it out like the rest of us? It's this kind of fucking asshole that makes writing the shit I write much easier.

Last but not least (by ANY stretch of the imagination), is a fellow named Uncle Pete, his wife, and their five-year-old niece. Uncle Pete is a whale of a guy, has to weigh-in at 450 pounds if he's an ounce. He's apparently slipped on his front porch and twisted his ankle something fierce. It's turned all different shades of purple and blue. Nasty. Ouch. They're done with the x-rays and are seated behind the small divider directly behind my chair to await the results. They pass the time by entertaining the wee-one in the only way a jumbo-size wit like Uncle Pete knows how: farting. He'd let one rip and then blame it on the niece, and she'd giggle and laugh and say "That wasn't me!" They say there's nothing sweeter than the sound of a child's laughter, and I'd have to agree. Except when the laughter comes at the expense of my nasal cavaty slowing rotting away due to the stench. If you've never had the pleasure of a fucking fat man's fart, it's like nothing you've ever experienced in your life. It hangs in the air so heavy you can practically taste the fucking thing. I wish this were an exaggeration. When I'd finally been seen and carted off to x-ray myself, I could still smell it on my clothes. And the attractive young nurse who escorted me there could, too. She kept her distance, and when I turned down the offer of a wheelchair you could practically see the relief on her face. When I was returned to my comfy chair, Uncle Pete and the family were gone, but certainly not forgotten. He'd left a piece of himself behind that I guarantee will take more than Lysol to remove.

And there you have it. My trip to the emergency room reinforces the idea of the spreading problem of cultural illiteracy. They're everywhere, friends, and so we must be vigilant, as always. At the ready with a stern look or a firm word of caution to help educate. Of course, it shouldn't have to be a matter of eduacating some of these fucking people. It's an issue of common sense and courtesy, as most of the issues with the illiterates. Alas, none seems to be coming anytime soon, so our best course of action is still education. (Do I sound put-upon? I was going for put-upon, did I sound put-upon?) And to answer your question, no, I didn't say anything to any of the three examples I just mentioned. This is an emergency room, not the mall, and while I'm all for speaking up (and out), I realize there's a modicum of etiquette to be followed. A time and place for everything. And besides...

I didn't know if Uncle Pete had eaten yet.

"Charlie Manson only wanted to make his house a home"- Tabitha's Secret

Let's chat about gullibility, shall we? To some degree, we're all gullible, and the reason is because we want to believe. We, as a species, are not born cynics and doubters, but trusters. Everything our parents shove down our throats from the day we're born until puberty (or thereabouts) is swallowed whole and digested as the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But once our minds begin to mature, and we start experiencing a few "truths" of our own, the things we're taught fall away or begin to be seen from different angles. We develop our own truths, our own ideas, and our own sets of moral and spiritual values. That is, if we're lucky. Some of you still cling to the old truths, and some of you make up new shit, just because it's difficult to wrap your tiny little minds around what's real. They say there are two truths: you're born and you'll die. And whether we end up as food for worms or our spirits rise to heavenly heights or fall into the abyss, we're going to end up rotting husks. What makes you who and what you are is what you do with the time in between. And ultimately, what you do and who you are depends greatly upon your level of gullibility.

The example that sticks out in my mind is Bill Clinton (wow, I'm really topical today!). He got on camera and looked America in the eye when he told them he "did not have sexual relations with that woman." He later told us his interpretation of the definition of "sex" was wrong, and that, indeed, a nice wet blowjob is sex. Huh. It is? Let me get my slide-rule and figure this out. Your pants are off (or at the very least unzipped) and your penis is in a woman's mouth. Now let's see... pi divided by atomic number 8 times bullshit factor... uhh, yes, that's sex. If your pleasure rod is in any way being handled by someone other than yourself (and ladies, same goes for your genitalia), it's sex. Got that? Okay, BUT... some of you didn't. According to some of you, the man was mistaken, that's all. His ideas about what sex was were just a little off. Let me ask you this: before all this went down, if you walked into your house and found your husband, wife, boyfriend, girlfriend, fiance, whatever with his/her genitalia in another person's mouth, would you be upset? Yes. Why? If it isn't sex, then why? Perhaps they're only playing "find the little man in the canoe." But you're upset, right? Of course you are! YOUR HUSBAND, WIFE, BOYFRIEND, GIRLFRIEND, FIANCE, WHATEVER HAS HIS/HER GENITALIA IN SOMEONE ELSE'S MOUTH, THAT'S WHY! Fuck, I'd be upset if my girlfriend's tongue was down another guy's throat (but not a woman's... and that's a story for another time). "It was just sex, nothing more, honey." Hmmm... is this supposed to make it okay? Yes, it's supposed to, but it greatly depends on your level of gullibility whether you allow it to be okay. It also depends on how fucking stupid you're willing to be.

This post is meant to be a cautionary tale. It seems the farther we come in our technologies and understanding of how things work, the more accepting we're willing to be of others' definitions of truths or their outright lies. We have unlimited access to knowledge via this handy-dandy little thing we call the world wide web, but we still have to be careful of what we believe. Wikipedia is not all truth, kids. Definitely NOT the place to research that final essay. Always remember that old truth (and yes, this IS a truth): If it sounds too good to be true, it's probably not true. Or, as Judith Sheindlin puts it, if it doesn't make sense, it can't be true. (There's goes my credibility... I just quoted Judge Judy! I'm kidding, she's a very intelligent woman!) Ask questions, look at things from all angles before you make up your mind. And trust your gut. Ultimately, the only person you can trust in this world is you.

Trust me.

"Kudos, my hero"- Foo Fighters

Progress! Yes, friends, there's been progress in our fight (I say "our" as if everyone's joined in... HA!). Nevertheless, I've seen it. Granted, it was only a man who was doing his job, and I'm sure it had nothing to do with what I write here (I'm not anywhere NEAR that egotistical!), but it was still a nice thing to see, and I thought I'd share. WARNING! This post is filled with the "warm and fuzzies" for the gent who stepped up, so if you only come here to hear me rant and rave, use foul language, and call people names, you'll be sorely disappointed. Well, except when I mention the fucking bitch who happens to be the antagonist in this post.

I picked up my paycheck from work and headed to Wally World to get it cashed. I have my ride park in a REGULAR PARKING SPACE because it's going on 5pm, and the parking lot's a bit too busy to let me off at the front door. Yes, I'm still in my boot and on my crutches for my foot trouble, but I, for one, realize that my time is no more valuable than anyone else's, and I don't want to inconvenience a mother or father that may be trying to get home to dinner with their family. Besides, I'm an able-bodied, strong, decent kind of guy, I can take care of myself. And I'm single. And I have papers, ladies. Full-blooded American male of Irish/German descent. Likes football (GO BUCKEYES!), long walks after dusk, reading, and indoor picnics. Did I mention single? Uhh, what was I talking about again? Oh, yeah! I was just getting to the good part...

I'm just getting the crutches under my arms when I look up and see a van coming to a stop in the "no parking" zone between the two front doors. A woman gets out of the passenger side, walks in, and the woman behind the wheel just sits there. What she doesn't see (but I do... oh yes...) is the sheriff's car, also parked in the "no parking" zone, behind her (this furthers my theory that the WMS cannot see beyond their own twisted little world). I start making my way to the front door as the sheriff exits his vehicle. I immediately stop where I am, in the handicapped spot nearest the front (nope, I don't have a sticker on my crutch). If what I think is about to happen actually does, I don't want to miss a thing! I am NOT disappointed.

The sheriff reaches her window and actually STARTLES her when he speaks! You got that? This fucking cunt (sorry, ladies, but I can think of no better term) is so engrossed in her own little world that she doesn't even see the guy with the big brown hat and the sidearm walking up to her car door! (For further information on this condition and the consequences thereto, please refer to the post "The WalMart Shopper: An Army Of One") I can't hear what he's telling her, but it's clear by her reaction ("Oh my god, EVERYONE does it!" I CAN hear this) that he's asked her to move her vehicle. And she does. And as she does, I start laughing. I can't help it! It's a win for our team! The WMS in this case has been foiled! I figure I'm going to get my own little dig in, so while I'm laughing I point! At her! And then I laugh louder! It's all very theatrical... And when she gives me that "fuck you" look, I flip her the bird. Which she returns in earnest. I hear "Sir, please." It's the sheriff, and he's speaking to me. But I like to think I saw the ghost of a smile on his lips. I hope so, he certainly brought a little joy into my day. "Sorry, sir," I say, as I proceed across the drive and toward the door. Before I can thank him for his service, he's already walking back to his vehicle. But if he's reading this, by some otherworldly chance, I'll say it now: Thank you, sir. You're doing good work.

And there you have it, friends. A little good news to begin your Friday. A win for the good guys, a loss for the scumbags. But law enforcement can't do it alone, and we shouldn't expect them to, either. When you see that bitch or that prick breaking the law, go inside and let someone know. After that, if nothing happens, at least you've done your part. And I promise to do mine, as well.

And to the passenger who couldn't find her ride when she came out: HAHAHA!!! and a flip of the bird to you, too!

Farting in the elevator doesn't count.

Whatever happened to taking responsibility for your own actions? Did it ever exist? Seems to me there's been a lot of "the dog ate my homework" and "he told me to do it" going on lately. You've got BP, who initially blamed their contractors for the explosion that's causing the devastation in the Gulf of Mexico, Jesse James (not the outlaw... well, then again...), "the most hated man in America," blaming childhood for his overactive labido, television critics blaming reality TV for the decline of network television (no no no... I blame- and praise- FOX for that...). There's plenty of blame going around, and nearly zero responsibility being taken. Why is that? Well, I happen to have a few ideas (like you didn't already know that)...

There's an old saying: "shit rolls downhill." Really? I, personally, have never witnessed this, have you? In my experience, shit's sticky. It doesn't roll. If I were standing at the top of a fucking GLASS RAMP and took a shit, it might SLIDE down, but roll? Absolutely not. Even if it did, I still have it all over my ass, that's why we make toilet paper, to get rid of the incriminating evidence (that, and because shit tends to get itchy when it dries on your bum). Even then, the smell remains. So we make air freshener to mask the smell. This is the perfect analogy for the BP fiasco.

British Petroleum took a big shit in the Gulf of Mexico, while drilling for oil. Now, BP says it was the contractor's fault, but it's STILL BP's asshole; they lease Deepwater Horizon and contracted it's workers, after all. The smell got out, and someone noticed. They yelled "Smells like someone took a big dump!" and soon the smell wafted to the CNN and FOX newsrooms, and national and local newspapers. Before BP could wipe it's ass with fluffy, quilted toilet paper in the form of press releases, the shit hit shore. Animal and plant life were covered in it. People started to complain. So, to fix the problem, BP developed it's own air freshener in the form of a metal tower, four-stories high, that was supposed to contain the leak and "fix" the problem. Their "air freshener" turned out to be the equivalent of waving a bar of soap back and forth through the air to get rid of the smell. The tower fell. And with no plunger and the toilet still running, it's like a septic tank out of control. Sea life from this disaster will be affected for years to come, which means the price of fish sticks, that staple of dietary nutrition in 99% of in-home daycare, will go through the roof. The tourist industry along the Gulf is already being affected, leaving desk clerks, waiters and waitresses, and fishing boat captains without the money they count on to make it through the slower winter months. And most importantly, the delicate ecosystem of our oceans, which we've already begun to destroy with trash dumping, pollution from huge seafaring vessels, and battles of wars past, is taking a hit that will affect future generations in ways we can't even imagine.

So, who's at fault? Ultimately, where do we place the blame for this shitstorm that all of us are complaining about? I'll tell you.

It's my fault. And it's your fault. We patronize BP and every other company, corporation, and even goverment that we have the balls to complain about. We allow them and even EMPOWER them to act in such a way as to take control over our lives, and then bitch and complain when they fuck up. And they ALWAYS fuck up. This isn't the first disaster we've seen, and I'm not even talking about in the oil industry. Enron, Fannie Mae, Lehman Brothers, and Rush Limbaugh (Elton, Elton, Elton... what the FUCK were you thinking?!), were all supported by us. I can hear some of you now: "I didn't support (insert company and/or asshole name here)!" Doesn't matter. As a member of our society, you're to blame. As am I. That's why we must do everything we can to make sure this doesn't happen again. We must learn from our mistakes. Teach through boycott. I can't believe I can still pass a BP gas station and find people lined up out front to get gas and cigarettes. PLEASE people! Wake the fuck up! This is what I'm talking about! Making a kid stand in the corner for burning a hole in your rug isn't going to teach him not to play with matches. You have to swat him on the ass, tell him fire can be dangerous, take away all of his toys and confine him to his room to make him understand his actions have consequences! That way he'll learn to take responsibility. Accept blame. This is a kid who's going to grow up knowing that if he fuck's up, he's going to pay a price. The kid who's made to stand in the corner will grow up to be a whiny little bitch, like Glenn Beck.

The bottom line is shit does NOT roll downhill. And only the unevolved fling it at others.

Happy Flag Day! Let's license people to breed!

Flag day. A holiday in honor of Old Glory, the Stars and Stripes, the most recognized symbol of freedom in the entire world. Out of the ashes of a revolution our flag rose, and gave a new nation a symbol for which to fight. The flag represents many things to many people. For myself, I look at the American Flag as a talisman to be held forward, to protect us from those who would wrong us, do us harm and bring evil into our midst. And to ward off those whose evil is already entrenched in our society (sing it with me, you know the words!): the culturally illiterate. You'd think they'd give us this one day. Just stay inside for one day, teach the l'il illiterates some new and exciting bad manner they can take with them into the world. But nooo... there are some bad manners and actions of ignorance one simply cannot teach on the living room floor or at the kitchen table. Some of their foolish bullshit has to be taught outside, among the normals (that's us, friends). And what better place to teach the little shits than (let's all say it together) WalMart!

I'd just left the emergency room (another long story for a different day), and needed to fill a few prescriptions. The nearest spot and the cheapest place to do that is Wally World. In Circleville. Yeah. I'm already feeling poorly and now I have the pleasure of potentially running into a WMS as well. Swell. We parked pretty near the front of the store (it was 10:30am, and the parking lot wasn't very full). I decided the best thing to do was wait in the car while my mother (who'd taken me to the ER) went in and filled the 'scripts for me (the ER visit was for gout, so now I'm on crutches and have this funny little velcro boot I have to wear). She hadn't been gone two minutes when I spotted the first WMS/culturally illiterate.

I'd lit a smoke and was trying to relax my foot when I saw a nice new Mustang pull around the corner. It was a deep blue with a convertible top, nice shiny chrome wheels, very sharp! I always think if you're going to have a car like that you should personalize the license plates, you know? Something cool like "MYSTANG" or "HORSPWR." So I always assume everyone thinks the way I do and look for what this wit has on the plate. Well, it's just a regular old plate, nothing special about it. It's not even one of the new Ohio plates, it's the older red and blue one. Oh, well. The car pulls into the handicapped spot nearest the door, and an elderly woman gets out. Not old, elderly, maybe late fifties (I find the older I get, the farther and farther the term "elderly" gets from me). She doesn't put a handicapped sign on her rearview, and I'd already seen the plates, no handicapped symbol there. As she's walking in I shout "That's a handicapped spot!" She glances around without stopping and proceeds inside. Look, people, I've heard this argument before, and I'm going to say it one more time: old does NOT equal handicapped. It also doesn't equal entitled. Yes, I've been told by elderly people I know personally that they've earned the right to park in the handicapped spots, they've worked all their lives and their bodies don't work as well as they once did. I sympathize. A little. VERY little, actually. I see elderly people all the time park rows and rows from the front door and limp all the way there. Good for them, they're following the rules. I had knee surgeory nine years ago and used my crutches, wouldn't dream of taking a handicapped spot away from someone who needed it. Bottom line is, if you don't have a handicapped plate or sign, you're not supposed to park in the handicapped spots. And yes, if I'd have had a cell phone (I gave my old one to my parents after I got the Magic Jack), I'd have called the people inside to let them know she had parked illegally. I've done it before, and I will again.

Here's a thought: What if a WMS and a lesser (but no more intelligent) culturally illerate decided to breed? Isn't that a frightening scenario? Well, it happens. Of course it does. The odds are too great. And suppose, just suppose, that not only do we have a mutant WMS walking amongst us... but that mutant is from our favorite Roundtown! Okay okay, enough, I'm going to end up scaring myself. But I believe that very thing has happened. And it's breeding more mutants...

A few minutes after anti-handicap left, a woman and her son, who was approximately eleven or twelve, came out with a cart and stopped at the car parked directly in front of me. The boy had a can of silly string and was spraying it on the cart, his mother's car, and the handicapped sign belonging to the space right next to his mother's car (where the cart with their bags in it was sitting). He eyed the van I was sitting in and stepped toward it, but spotted me and turned around. The whole time the silly string was flying, the kid's mother seemed oblivious to everything except putting the groceries into the back seat and getting a can of coke from the carton and drinking it. She then put her son in the passenger seat and proceeded to her side of the car, leaving the cart parked in the middle of the handicapped space. I attempted to get her attention by calling "stupid bitch," but she was paying no attention (or she was ignoring me, more likely). When she got in her car, she left her door open. I saw her bend out the door, and I looked out the window to see what she was doing. She was pouring a can of energy drink out. When it was empty, she set the can on the ground and shut her door. Again I yelled "stupid bitch!" Ignoring me, she pulled out (nearly hitting a couple of teenagers coming up the row on foot) and left. I grabbed my crutches, stepped out of the car, picked up the can and set it in the cart she left behind. I tucked both crutches under my right arm and (sort of) walked the cart to the corral, deposited the can in the trash barrel sitting there, and stepped back to the van. It took me less than a minute and a half, and I was on crutches! I figure it would've taken less than twenty seconds for the dumb bitch who left her shit behind.

There you have it. Two fine examples of cultural illiteracy. You know, people like these don't need me or anyone else to fill them in on how to behave. Most of their issues are lack of common sense, lack of common courtesy, and laziness. And stupidity. And ignorance. And it just goes to show, no matter what day the calendar says it is, and no matter what the season, for these fucking assholes, intelligence is always on vacation.

Complaining for fun and profit!

I've always wanted an alaskan malamute. If you don't know, it's a breed of dog that looks similar to a husky, but with more fur and generally brown eyes. My aunt had one when I was growing up named Duke, and they're the most beautiful, gentle, and loving dogs I've ever encountered. And they're BIG. In my way of thinking, if you have to bend over to pet a dog, it's too small. I was looking on Craig's List the other day (not really thinking I'd find one... and I didn't), when I came across an ad in the "free" stuff section. You're going to love this, and if you don't, I don't give a fuck. You're probably the one who wrote it...

I should have copy/pasted the ad, but in my druggedness (fuck if I know if that's a word, but you're sure as hell not going to find it in Webster's!), I forgot. (No, I don't take illegal drugs, I have a 'script for vicodin; and if you do not, I highly recommend getting one.) But I digress... The ad went something like this:

(Completely paraphrased) I'm getting sick and tired of people posting free animals in the "free" section! They belong in the "pets" and "community" sections, not here! I'm sick of browsing and finding a bunch of free puppies and free kittens ads! You don't see animal shelters running ads on here! (Note from Mick: actually, once in a while you do. And in the furniture section a lot of furniture outlets run ads as well. Cheap advertising, I guess.) You don't see adoption agencies posting for "free childern!" (Note from Mick: uhh... isn't that illegal?) If I see any more ads for free pets in this section, I'm going to flag them and have them removed! (Note from Mick: yeah, I don't think that'll happen, but have at it, loser.) Keep the "free" section free of animals! (Note from- fuck, you know: this seemed to be his attempt at wit. He might be half right.)

Huh... really? The ad got some responses, similar to the one I'm going to post here, which consisted of a lot of "What harm is there in it" and "You reach more people this way, so more chance of giving an animal a nice home" and the like. I'm going to concentrate on it a bit differently: GET A FUCKING LIFE, ASSHOLE! These people are right, there's no harm in what they're doing, and it does allow more people to view the ads. I mean, I don't know about you, but if I'm going to look for something on Craig's List, I generally start in the "free" section and work my way around. You just never know. I found a free pool table there once that a woman was giving away. It was her husband's, and after he moved out to be with his mistress, she decided to give it away for free. (That never fails to make me laugh!) So what if you've got to scroll a few pages only to come up empty? Craig's List is probably not the best place to hunt down that strap-on dildo you're looking for anyway. And you're going to spend a lot of time going through the ads and flagging them. If you have that kind of time, get a hobby. Go fishing. Read a book. Do SOMETHING that doesn't involve being an asshole simply for the sake of being an asshole. Write a blog!

Oh, wait... we've already got one of those...

Bottom line: if you want to involve yourself in a cause, make it something worthwhile to everyone. Join Amnesty International, or Greenpeace, or Feed The Children. I believe you're one of the "culturally illiterate" we can actually save. You've already shown you have passion, you just need to re-direct that passion. And please... quit being a fucking jerk, alright?

It's the eighth commandment, you fucking hypocrite!

Webster's Dictionary definition of "steal": To take another person's property; to move in a sly way; to move secretly.

This definition must be expanded, and I'm going to tell you why (was there ever any doubt?). I work for a clothing company that does mucho business both online and in retail outlets. We're five-brands strong, and during the holiday season last year, we hit a record 1 million and some-odd thousand items sold in a single week. That's actually quite amazing, when the numbers are dissected and broken down. I'm not going to do that (because I can't). The most expensive brand we carry is A*****a. Sorry, don't want to lose my job. I love my job, can't imagine doing anything else, so you're going to have to figure it out for yourself.

This particular brand has a "no fault" return policy. No matter how old it is, no matter what the condition, the items purchased can be returned for refund or exchange. There are two stipulations: 1) The item must have the original tag that was sewn into it when purchased and 2) If it's an item like swimsuit bottoms, it must be returned with the hygenic strip in place. That's all. The items are mostly sportswear like ski pants, bathing suits, yoga pants, tennis skirts, etc. The products are more expensive than the other brands. A LOT more. I mean, a WHOLE LOT more. A single shirt (not a dress shirt, just a plain t-shirt you might wear to a spinning class) can run $50.00 or even more. For a t-shirt. Yeah. Ski pants are well over $200.00. A water bottle can run $25.00. You get the idea. The problem is that damned return policy. It gives the customer a license to steal. And they do...

The first time I was put on catalog returns for this brand, I received a pair of shoes (hiking sandals, actually) that had already been credited by customer service, via telephone, in February, shortly after the order was placed. I opened the return in October. Got that? They waited until AFTER the summer was over to actually return the shoes. No reason was given as to why the customer was returning them (there are several reasons to choose from in returning an item, including "too expensive," "arrived late," and my favorite, "didn't like the color" which about half the time, no kidding, is literally a black or white issue; as in the color they didn't like, which they themselves ordered, was either black or white!). The shoes had obviously been worn, and I didn't need to look at the soles to figure it out. They'd disintegrated. They had dirt and sand all over them, the customer's foot was imprinted on the shoe, and a strap was coming off. My theory: she was familiar with the return policy, and the idiocy of the customer service agents, and decided to take advantage (to be fair, I don't know what the policies are for CSRs, so this particualer CSR may have been following protocol). She wore them to the beach, or hiking, maybe ran through a few creeks, stepped on a few toads, let her dog chew on them, then sent them back. This, my friends, is stealing. Plain and simple. And this type of thing is not uncommon. The oldest invoice I've persoanlly returned, late last year, was from 2003. The oldest I've seen was from 2001. The customer can return for credit, gift card, or exchange. I've referred to this as "renting" clothes, as if we're the "clothing library." But what it actually is, is stealing. Regardless of what the policy states.

We, like many other web sites, charge a small fee for return labels. Our's is $6.00. But there are ways to avoid this charge (not gonna tell you... forget it). The A*****a customers are THE WORST to try to get out of it. This is what REALLY pisses me off! I got a return the other day from a customer of this brand. Thirty-one items returned, a $1500.00 order, and they called the idiots in customer service and told them they'd received a "wrong item" (alright, you get ONE). It turns out the item was EXACTLY what the bitch ordered, but the CSR she spoke to promised her the fee would not be charged (this is a better example of our idiot CSRs). Let me get this straight: you have no problem placing an order for more than a thousand bucks worth of clothes, but you're too cheap to pay for your own fucking shipping label?! Someone, please, slap the fuck out of this person.

You get the idea? No matter how you look at it, these well-to-do people are stealing. And anyone who lives in the real world knows they're not only stealing from the guy who signs my paychecks, but from me and the more than a thousand people that have to put up with their bullshit excuses, their cons, and their thieving. It affects my raise. It affects our bonus programs, which have already begun to go the way of Heidi Montag's face. And it affects you, as well. Even if you don't shop A*****a, you've probably purchased from one of our other brands. The prices will end up increasing substantially, so you'll end up being another victim of these thieves. I know there are those of you who are going to say "Why not just change the policy?" We can't, it's a whole legal issue about which I don't know enough to speak intelligently. Or maybe you'd say "If that's the policy, then you have nothing to gripe about." If you're one of these, you're a fucking idiot.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to return this half-eaten quarter-pounder with cheese. I'll let you know how it works out for me...