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.