For the record, this article isn’t about the chumps you went to high school with. It’s about police officers. Or, more specifically, how to get out of traffic tickets. I wrote a little about the childhood tendencies of police officers because if you’re going to manipulate one, it’s best you have an idea of what makes them tick. You have to consider the fucked up little ways in which their shockingly small brains work. Sometimes that means you have to consider what the awful little shits were doing in grade school. Likely, he was being a bully. Imagine the smarmiest little asshole you went to school with. If he was dressed nice by his overtly liberal parents, had an incredibly sissy sounding name, and nearly always backed down if someone tougher stood up to him, it’s likely he joined the force. Basically, a police officer is nothing more than a grown up bully with a badge. Stand up to one now though, and you’ll find yourself sitting in a cell after 5 of them held you down and shoved a taser up your ass.

Make no mistake, a police officer’s job isn’t to ‘serve and protect.’ A police officer’s job is to fuck around with the average, every day Joe who forgot to wear his seat belt. AKA a police officer writes traffic tickets. If you want someone to keep you safe from rapists, burglars, and murders, don’t call the cops. Buy a dog.

With that said, police officers are actually pretty easy to deal with. Over the years, I have gotten pretty adept at escaping their greasy grasp without receiving a ticket. All you have to do is remember a few key rules.

Never Ask a Police Officer How to Get Out of a Traffic Ticket

Or, if you do, expect a lie. Don’t believe me? Give it a shot. I’ll bet you $10 that Officer Asshole advises you to ‘just be really respectful’ and ‘don’t give him a hard time.’

Bullshit. You can ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’ that fucking asshole to death. You’ll still get the ticket. Why? Please re-read paragraph one of this article. Remember when I told you that police officers are bullies? And what does a bully enjoy more than lesser beings feeding his ego? Calling him ‘sir’ does nothing but remind him that he has power over you. It’ll make him happy, sure. But unless it makes you happy to see him strut up to your window with a ticket in hand, don’t bother.

Pretend You Care About Him on a Human Level

The thing about bullies is they grew up either being overindulged and coddled, or ignored completely. No one, not even their parents, ever cared about them on a sincere, individual, human level. If you want to throw a police officer for a loop, be the first person in their lives to show genuine concern over their well being.

A good little maneuver to pull* when you get pulled over is to immediately scoot over to your passenger side seat. When the cop walks up to the driver side window, wave him frantically over to the passenger side window while simultaneously insisting, “Please come over here. I don’t want you to stand so close to traffic like that. If some idiot serves and hits you, it will be my fault.”

Sound concerned and flustered and as your police officer obediently walks around you car, you will notice his shoulders slump, his head bow, and a half smile will appear on his face. Someone is worried about him? Why, that’s never happened to him before! Now, all of the sudden, how fast you were going is the last thing on his mind.

Do NOT Make Excuses

When you make excuses, the only thing you do is set yourself up to be lectured. If there is one thing a police officer loooooves to do, it is to lecture. It’s how they psych themselves up into a frenzy of self righteousness which will make them feel good about writing you a ticket.

Instead, shrug and say, “I’m sorry.” THE END.

If the police officer persists in asking you WHY you were going so fast, just say, “I guess I just didn’t notice how fast I was going. Thanks for stopping me. I know you’re just doing your job.”

Anything after that, just repeat, “I’m sorry.”

Part of the fun of writing tickets for police officers is the part where you beg and make excuses while they lecture you and ultimately punish you. It’s their adult version of ‘Say uncle!’ Take the fun out of the game and they’ll be less likely to play it with you. You’ll actually see their eyes leave your face to scan the streets as they’re talking. Want to know what they’re doing? They’re looking for weaker prey. That teenager driving the red ford focus looks like a good target…

Change the Subject

If at all possible, change the subject. Try to get your police officer to forget that he’s a police officer. This is surprisingly easy to do.

For example, if your dog is in the car, allow your dog to crawl up on the window and solicit petting from the cop. Train your dog to do this if you have to, it’s well worth the time.

Then you can say, “I’m sorry, he just really loves people. Do you like dogs?”

(Do NOT say, “He really loves police officers!” Remember, you are trying to get him to FORGET that he’s a police officer, not remind him! Also, you will sound too obvious and suck up-y.)

The next thing you’ll know Officer Short Attention Span will be waxing nostalgic about some beagle pup he had in the 8th grade. Ask a lot of questions, sound interested in his stupid story and the next thing you know he’ll be waving you away without as much as a written warning.

Hate to Say it, But Boobs Help

Don’t be overtly flirty or the grease ball might actually want you to do something in exchange for leniency. But if you have a nice rack and are wearing a tight shirt, it helps to lean over a lot.

When All Fails, Go to Court

If you did everything exactly how I told you and still got the ticket, chances are your police officer walked away from your car feeling deflated or even a little guilty for hassling you. In that case, go to court and contest the charges. Nine time out of time, he won’t bother to show up as a witness against you. Which means you’ll get nailed with a small fine to cover court costs, but no actual points on your license.

On the other hand, if you copped an attitude, argued with your police officer, gave him a hard time, condescended to him, or otherwise allowed your utter disdain for him to show, your police officer will walk away from your car filled with FURIOUS ANGER. He will show up with a hard on in court just to fuck with you some more and it will be the highlight of his day to do so. Piss him off even more and he will convince his buddies to follow you around town looking to nail you for even the most minor of infractions. I know someone who pissed off a police officer so bad he ended up losing his license due to 12 point violation. He got all of his tickets in the span of 2 weeks and some of them were so ignorant that I still can’t believe they stuck. No joke, 2 of those points came from a traffic ticket he got for going 31 in a 35. Yes you read that right: he got a ticket for going four miles UNDER the speed limit.

Obviously, he pissed off the wrong pig.

Basically my list boils down to this: fake like you think police officers are human. Reward them when they act like one. Then drive away, ticket free, muttering to yourself about what a bunch of stupid fucking tools they are.

It’s what I do and it works.

*Unless you’re black. In which case, it’s more likely the cop will just try to shoot you through your back window.

I should have known better.

Generally, I avoid reading feedback about my site like the plague. First of all, I’m boring. Second of all, it usually gives me a headache. I’ve been far too busy lately to nurse a throbbing skull.

Don’t get me wrong, most everyone said something humorous (intentionally or not) and a handful even managed to come up with logical or insightful anecdotes/arguments.

But the idiots always bray the loudest, don’t they?

One dipshit even implied that all my stories must be fake because I periodically write about happy memories of my childhood/Mother/Home life. Apparently, these stories don’t make sense when peppered with stories of child abuse. Oh, gag me.

Can I please point out the obvious? If my life had been a nonstop horror show, I probably would have committed suicide by now. Seriously, let’s be real here.

Secondly, am I the only one who understands that people aren’t characters? Am I the only one who knows the difference between the two? Please God, tell me I’m not.

There is no such thing as a virtuous hero. There are no witty sidekicks. Real life doesn’t contain crazed super villains who exist only to kick puppies and give the star of the show a believable character arc. Reality and fiction are two totally different things. People are complex. Situations aren’t black and white. There is a spoon, people! THERE IS A GODDAMN SPOON!

The reason I can write about both good and bad memories of my Mother is because I have both good and bad memories of my Mother. She is not a character in a movie. She is a living, breathing human being. Thus, she is made up of shades of gray just live everyone else on this godforsaken planet. I know, I know. Shame on her for not following the fucking script.

My Mother totally lacked the ability to be physically affectionate with her children. Never in my life has my Mother kissed or hugged me. As a child, when crossing the street she would refuse to take my whole hand in hers. Instead, she would distastefully present me with her pinky finger to clutch. When we made it to the sidewalk, she would snatch it away as if I were a dirty, repulsive thing that caused her physical pain to touch. Now, I can also be kind of weird about touching small children. It just doesn’t feel normal to me.

On the other hand, my Mother never censored me. I could read or watch any damn thing I wanted. When my concerned 1st grade teacher called home after I brought Stephan King’s ‘Carrie’ to sustained silent reading, my Mother snapped at her. “My daughter is not an idiot,” she said, “She knows the difference between fantasy and reality.” I was so proud, I slugged through the entire book with a dictionary carefully balanced on my knee so I could look up the words I didn’t understand. I ended up reading at such an advanced level, I skipped grades in school.

My Mother had an extremely bad temper and almost zero patience for children. Imagined disrespect, loud noises in the morning, a chore done subpar…everything set her off. She would go from completely calm and serene to violently out of control in a split second. Anything within her reach would become a weapon. I was beaten with hot wheel tracks, burnt with hot curling irons, or stabbed with steak knives. In the absence of a suitable weapon, my Mother would simply grab me by the hair and repeatedly slam my head into hardwood floors or walls. I would quickly learn to go limp when she started on me. Crying or struggling always made it worse, so I took my punishments silently and stoically. Today, I have an extremely high tolerance for pain.

My Mother never catered to our dietary whims. When she fed us, she fed us well. Fruits, veggies, foods from every nationality or culture were foisted upon us. Now that I think about it, she really was an excellent cook. It’s a pity she wasn’t in her domesticated moods more often. Either way, though, neither me nor my brother are picky eaters and we have her to thank for that.

My Mother had a hard time finding her own identity; her personality changed with every new boyfriend she acquired. Nothing ever lasted for her and ultimately her romantic relationships would fail and her situational friends would disappear with them. I think…this made her feel very, very low. And when my Mother was feeling low, the only way she knew how to soothe herself was to tear someone else down to her level. Mostly, this was me. She said things to me that I can’t even bring myself to type today. It’s far easier for me, emotionally, to tell you about the time she set my hair on fire. That, at least, is funny in a darkly humorous sort of way. But the way my Mother used to scream at me, for hours on end, viciously slapping my cheeks should I nod off around 2am…no….I can’t find anything funny in that.

My Mother had a talent for taking apart every aspect of your personality, magnifying the bad, and twisting the good until it was bad, too, all in order to replace every emotion you’ve ever had with shame and self loathing. Sometimes my mind would break when she did this to me. I couldn’t hear her anymore. My my mind would be filled with wailing, this god awful wailing, that reminds me of a dying animal whenever I try to conjure up the memory. I would slump over during these times, eyes open but unseeing, with nothing but the sounds of sirens in my ears. I never went to school after a night of this. I needed time to learn to speak again.

I suppose you could read all of these things and come to the conclusion that the bad memories far outweighed the good. Perhaps you’d be right, but that doesn’t mean the good never existed. I guess you could read this and assume I hate my Mother. But you’d be wrong. Hating my Mother for being who she was would be akin to hating a rock for being a rock. It’s an exercise in futility to hate someone for being a product of their environment. If anything, the fact that she could do this to a helpless child just proves the depths of her own despair.

I’m still afraid of my Mother. But if I weren’t, I’d like to give her a hug. I wish I could tell her how sorry I am for whatever happened to her as a child that scarred her so deeply and drove her to this. I wish my Mother could learn how to feel love and empathy and find peace within herself and some semblance of joy in her life. I wish I could help her. But I can’t.

She’s broken. She’s broken beyond repair and it was inevitable that she’d lash out at someone. Secretly, I am glad this person was me. If only because I was able to take it. I like to pretend she picked me for this very reason. I like to think she ripped me apart not because she hated me, but because she knew I was strong enough to put myself back together again. God knows she always raised me to be tough. And if I am anything, I am tough. Tough as nails.

And I have her to thank for it.

“Come back when the streetlights come on,” they said.

Oftentimes, my 3 year old brother was sent out with me to tagalong. Of course, I considered this a great imposition. After all, at 5 I was way too old to hang out with babies. Still, I had to take care of him because that’s what older sisters are supposed to do.

Back then, we never dialed phones and set up 2 hour play dates. Instead, we’d simply knock on our friend’s doors and say, “Is so&so allowed to come out and play?”

Of course they were.

When we got a good group together, we’d play baseball or kickball in the street.

Yes, in the street.

When the cars rounded the corner, we’d scurry away as fast as we could. We’d use a whiffle ball instead of a real ball in order to prevent hurting anyone’s car. After that, we’d have a squirt gun war. No one checked the temperature on the Internet to make sure it was warm enough to get wet.

Fortunately, no one got sick or died.

Some days, we’d go exploring in the woods. Our minds full of fantastical stories of bad guys chasing us, we decided we must build a tree house. So we gathered up scrap pieces of old wood, rusty nails pulled out of rotting pieces of equipment, and a hammer someone nicked from their Father’s toolbox. Then we’d nail this crap to a tree. Once the rickety house was complete, we’d climb up in it, careful to hold on to the branches in case the floor gave out beneath us. Then, we’d muse to ourselves that we had not built it high enough.

We built ramps in parking lots and jumped them with every toy we had that sported wheels. Skateboards, bikes, roller skates. We didn’t have helmets or kneepads or elbow pads. It didn’t matter. Sometimes we’d fall and rub the skin completely off of our bodies. Nobody cared.

We’d eat berries and apples from strange trees. We’d ride our bikes 6 miles to the park, alone. And not just any park, either. We went to parks with monkey bars higher than our Dad’s heads and dangled our legs over cement. We sat in puddles full of oil and water and swam in water so dirty it might as well be called sewage. In the summertime, we’d go 6, 7, 8 hours at a time without laying eyes on our parents.

And we survived.

Hell, we didn’t just survive. We flourished.

Not a single one of us was overweight; we all had little muscles popping out here and there. We were brave, too. Little badasses. There was no way a perv was going to kidnap us. In fact, we kept little sticks we had sharpened on the sidewalk in our pockets, just in case. Homemade shanks. Sometimes we got lost or hurt, sure. But we knew the difference between a creepy adult you should steer clear of and a responsible adult you could ask for help.

And not one of us died. Not one.

Unfortunately, things have changed and I’m inclined to believe it’s not for the better. I cannot stand how cowardly, weak, and coddled children have become. Children twice the age I was back when I was running the streets with a 3 year old brother in tow have 1/8th the confidence and capability.

Last week, I went to target with a 10 year old and an 8 year old. We stopped in the toy section for a moment because I remember what it was like to walk the isles and dream. (As opposed to today where children walk the isles and demand shit until they get their every heart’s desire)

I said to the children, “I’m going to go look the bath towels. If you want to stay here and look at the toys, I’ll be back to get you in 10 minutes.”

As a child, I wouldn’t have even acknowledged this was a big deal. It was commonplace for me to split from my parents in department stores. They always looked at boring shit and I had a Christmas list to write.

“No, we’ll just stay with you,” the children nervously tittered.

“You want to look at bath towels?” I asked, “Are you sure? Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay and look at the toys…or maybe cross the isles and look at the electronics?”

“No, we’ll just stay with you.”

I can’t stand it anymore. Kids aren’t normal! They have no childhood anymore. They just have one never ending, confidence crushing, adventure less, schedule. They have self esteem, (whatever that means) but no actual accomplishments.

So I came up with a plan.

I gave the children $20. “This is for cleaning up the yard,” I said.

Then, we went to the mall. As we stood by the pizza place in the food court, I approached them with a little proposition.

“You guys are free to go spend your money, but I’m not coming with you.”

They blinked their eyes, confused. “Where will you be?”

“I’ll be in the boring stores and I don’t plan to step foot in a single toy store. So if you want to spend that $20, you’re going to have to go it alone.”

The children were torn between the desire to spend the money that was burning a hole in their pocket and their preference to remain in the company of adults at all times. Finally, they hesitated and I knew I had them.

“We got to lay down some ground rules, though, before we split up. The first one is that you stay together no matter what. The second one is you do not leave this mall under any circumstance without me…not even with another adult. The last one is we meet back here at this pizza shop at exactly 3:30pm.”

I paused briefly when I realized that neither one of them was wearing a watch. Then I thought to myself, fuck it.

“If you need to know what time it is, you can ask any clerk working behind the counter of any one of these stores. If you need directions back to this pizza place or to a restroom, you can ask them that, too. I want you to mind your manners, don’t break or steal anything, no fighting, no screaming, no running, and no idiocy. You got that?”

They nodded their heads carefully.

“Alright then, go. Have fun.”

I watched them walk away until they got lost in the crowd. For a moment, I felt completely satisfied. They’re finally learning independence, I told myself.

But that lasted only a moment. Not more than 5 minutes after they walked out of my sight, I found myself choking on my fear.

What if they get lost? Fall down? Get into trouble at one of the stores? What if someone sees them walking alone and calls the police? Ten and seven is plenty old enough to walk around a mall, but people are nuts now. Nuts. And what if they’re right? This is a safe neighborhood. Not a single child has been kidnapped here in my lifetime. Crime is low. No gang violence. This is a safe neighborhood! But still…but still…but still.

I resisted the urge to track them down and tell them I changed my mind. If I had I would have invalidated every bit of courage they had displayed in walking away. So, I let them be.

And at exactly 3:15, I was at the pizza shop waiting for them. If they are even 5 minutes late, I will go looking for them. Get on the intercom or something, I nervously told myself.”

But they weren’t late. At 3:30 on the nose, they showed up, cheeks red with excitement, with a bag of spoils wrapped around their arms. They had an adventure. They had a great time. They walked with a bit of a swagger now. Children of the world; little bad asses.

I knew the answer the second I saw them strutting, but I asked anyway, “Did you have a good time?”

Their answer was enthusiastic.

Of course they had.

Of course they had.

No one died. Instead, they experienced a bit of pure, undiluted, childhood.

Not 10 second into the performance, I muttered to the television screen, “Better kick it up a few notches, asshole.”

Said asshole mewed and whined a few more verses in an attempt to make the song sound pretty. For some strange reason, this annoyed the shit out of me.

Losing my admittedly erratic and often irrational temper, I howled at the screen, “Jesus Christ, man! Will you sing that song with some passion please! Don’t you know what that song is about?”

If anyone reading right now blinked and answered, “Changing the world via charity?” let me take this moment to tell you exactly how naïve and incorrect you are. Learn to read between the lines, people.

“Man in the Mirror,” by Michael Jackson is about diddling little boys. I’d bet money on it.

Don’t think I was always so enlightened. I’ll admit, when it first came out I was also fooled. I bought the lie. I, too, bobbed my head to the beat while thinking to myself, “Wow, Michael is tired of being a rich asshole and now he wants to give to charity and shit. What a fucking humanitarian!”

Oh, Michael, you tricky bastard! In retrospect, it’s pretty obvious that you had just molested your first little boy and felt a twinge of guilt. Much like a Catholic priest, I’m sure you thought covertly confessing your sins would stifle your monstrous urges to tongue a prepubescent little boy’s asshole.

By the way, how did that work out for you? Ouch, not so well, eh?

For those of you who are still skeptical listen for yourself:

I’m looking at the man in the mirror
And I’m asking him to change his ways
And no message could have been any clearer
If you want to make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself and make a change
(And quit molesting kids)
Nanana nanana nananananana

It’s so obvious now, isn’t it?

That’s why watching that contestant softly sing “Man in the mirror” last night was so annoying. Michael Jackson didn’t sing that song; he screamed it. He screamed it as if the pedophilic hounds of Hell were chasing him. And despite the fact that he tossed in a couple of garbage lines about starving children (Starving for HIS COCK), he sang it like a man desperate for an appetite for full grown pussy. Or at least barely legal pussy.

Alas, the Gods were not on his side.

Sorry, Michael. American Idol just doesn’t understand you.

Reviewing EJ was a lot of fun. In fact, I had so much fun skewering that self important little bastard, that when someone else offered me cold hard cash to review them, I couldn’t hit the ‘accept’ button quick enough. Two idiots in less than a week? Is it fucking Christmas around here or something?

Silly me, I should have checked out the site before accepting because what I ended up with is Online Casino Reviews. Yes, you read that right. I am supposed to review a site that exists solely to review other sites.

My head hurts already.

The fact of the matter is I am not a degenerate gambler. Ultimately, I really have no fucking clue what makes a good gambling review site. Hell, I don’t even know what makes a good gambling site. Pictures of naked women? Loud music that drowns out the sound of your child’s sobs after you pissed away his college fund? Who fucking knows? I’ll tell you who: degenerates. Sorry, but I am not a part of that club.

So I’m going to go with what I know and say the layout of this site is annoying. I don’t like excessive graphics and logos on a website. That’s my personal preference.

Also, the reviews aren’t interesting. Whether or not they are informative, I can’t say. What I can say is they look like they were all written by retarded chimps. Ideally, if you are going to have a review site, my suggestion would be to find a legible author with just a touch of goddamn personality. This is not entertaining:

The casino software is also state-of-the-art, quick download or no-download version available. Plus an easy to use interface makes this a great choice for casino gambling online.

*Licenced
*Safe and secure credit card transaction

So my advice to this site is to find someone to write more comprehensive and entertaining reviews who can also correctly spell words like ‘licensed.’ In a nutshell, whether you’re reviewing products or other sites, a dash of intelligence and a whole lot of spice goes a long way.

As for whether or not the site is useful or accurate, I have no idea. Perhaps if some of my readers of the degenerate persuasion (I know you’re out there!) are in the mood to take a break from tossing their money in the trash, they will generously check out the site and let me know in the comments. Visit Online Casino Blue Book here.

V: No way in Hell.

Brother: [to husband] What about you? Would you want her to have a downs baby?

Husband: Not a chance. No way, I couldn’t deal with that shit.

V: [to brother] Would YOU want your girlfriend to have a downs baby?

Brother: Fuck no!!!

V: What if your girlfriend was pregnant and when she found out, she really, really wanted to keep it? How could you even talk her out of it?

Brother: I’d push her down the stairs and kick her in the belly 10 times. Then, I would stand over her in the dark as she cried and whisper, “God would have wanted it this way….”

For the first time ever, I sorely underestimated the intelligence level of the average American blogger and I failed to entice a single person to foolishly pay me for an online tongue lashing…

…until now.

Everyone, allow me to introduce you to ExtremeJohn.com. EJ (as he likes to call himself) is literally the only moron on the Internet who was actually brain dead enough to pay me (ME!) for a review. When I was first was notified of his desire, I was hesitant. Surely, his site must be the best goddamn site on the Internet for him to have the nuts to step to me, right?

Wrong.

Turns out Ej really is just that dumb. Fat, orange, and dumb.

Don’t believe me? See for yourself.

Oh and Chris Brown here’s a big Giant EFFFFF UUUUU for all the guys that would love the chance to Hit Rhianna and by hit we sure don’t mean beating her ass on the side of the road by a Lamborghini.. EFFF UU!

If you don’t have the guts to type out the word FUCK, then you are pussy. If it’s a matter of not liking the word, then don’t use it. I’m fine with that. As far as I’m concerned, the word ‘fuck’ is an acquired taste anyway. But don’t you dare write some meandering, adolescent tripe like ‘eff uuu’ and expect me to take anything you have to say seriously.

Also: you. Your. You’re. Learn the difference. One mistake is a typo. Constant, never ending, misuse of these words makes you look like a ridiculous fucking moron. Jesus Christ, man. You have kids. How will they learn to read and comprehend if you can’t?

Lastly, don’t say things like ‘shit stain’ and then toss words like ‘dreadful’ in there just for fun. Pick a fucking voice or else you end up sounding like you have a bad case of split personality disorder.

That’s all I have for constructive criticism.

Other than that, there’s not much to say about EJ simply because he doesn’t have much to say. His website basically boils down to vague, monosyllabic, grunting about his likes and dislikes. “Me Like Tanning.” “Me no like hitting!” “Pot rules.” “Smoking drools.”

Those aren’t exact quotes, but that’s pretty much the extent of it. There is no depth. No passion. No thought. No reason to read whatsoever. The end result is utter and complete boredom. Reading EJ is akin to being fucked in the ass with a hot poker while a small Mexican boy pisses in your face. It’s so boring it’s painful.

The cherry on the shit pie is EJ tries to make this all OK by periodically posting pictures of coked out sluts who look like they’ve all been molested by the same Uncle. It’s not OK, man. It’s seriously not OK.

EJ very briefly won me over with pictures of his dog that is admittedly very cute and literally the only bright spot on a very dark and decaying blog.

If you’re slightly masochistic or into beat up looking whores with flabby asses, check out ExtremeJohn.com here.

He had all the telltale signs. Tall and lanky. Overgrown, curly gray hair. Knitted mittens. Plaid hat with ear flaps. Sallow, sallow eyes. And a general air about him that said, ‘I haven’t eaten flesh in years and I’m hungry, goddammit!’

For a brief moment, I considered getting in another line. But every other line had at least 8 people ahead of me and all I wanted was a bunch of bananas. I like bananas, but generally not enough to wait in line for a half an hour for them. So with great trepidation, I got behind the lanky potential vegetarian.

He hefted a large bag of dog food onto the conveyor belt and began a very animated conversation with no one in particular. The teenage cashier smiled and nodded politely as she held her hand out for payment. Instead of completing his transaction, Mr. Crazy Eyes ignored her completely to announce very loudly to everyone within earshot, “Well! I’ll tell ya! The rich just keep getting richer and the poor just keep getting poorer! Isn’t that right?”

The cashier smiled weakly, “I guess so.”

“You know what we should do?” he continued, “We should gather up all the world’s resources…all the oil…all the food…all the shelter…everything…and divide it up equally between everyone! We should! We should really do that!”

The cashier said nothing. She merely re-presented her hand for payment.

Still fired up and obviously needing an outlet, he turned and looked me (of all people) directly in the eyes. Most sane individuals would consider that a mistake.

“Don’t you think that’s what we should do? Divide it up all equally?”

“So you’re a communist.” I remarked dryly.

“I’ll tell you one thing! Jesus was a communist! He was! Jesus and God were both communists! I know you probably don’t believe this, but I read the Bible once—”

(What the fuck? Why wouldn’t I believe that?)

“—And it said that Jesus was a communist. I read it! I read it when I was 32 years old! Jesus wants us ALL to be CHEERFUL GIVERS!”

He was getting more and more worked up, almost shouting, and a line was forming behind us both. All I wanted was my bananas, so I desperately searched my mind for the perfect thing to say to shut him up for good.

“Well, being that I’m an Atheist, what Jesus says really doesn’t apply to me.”

Unfortunately, this ended up being the exact wrong thing to say.

With a shocked inhalation of breath, Mr. Crazy Eyes froze. His gnarled and bony hand covered his gaping mouth. Then, with eyes rolling in all directions at once, he screamed at me.

“DON’T SAY THAT! You can’t say that! You’ll go to HELL if you say that!”

I took a short, quick step backwards because for a second there, it looked like he was going to grab me by my shoulders and shake the shit out of me. Instead, he clenched his fists and screamed at the sky.

“JESUS IS COMING BACK, MAN! HE’S COMING BACK! AND IF YOU SAY THAT, YOU’LL GO STRAIGHT TO HELL!”

I am going to interrupt this story right now because I want to make something perfectly clear. All my life, I have defended Christians. Even though devout Christians are nothing more than America’s little retards, I have stood beside them against my fellow Atheists. I have repeatedly told my brethren, “Hey look, I know they’ve got drool on their chins and snot bubbles on their nostrils, but they’re people, dammit! And as people, they have the right to believe in whatever ridiculous goddamn thing they want free from condescending persecution from you!”

I defend Christians. And this is the thanks I get? THIS IS THE THANKS I GET?

“WORLD BE FREE!” Mr. Crazy Eyes suddenly shrieked, “World Be Free! You probably don’t remember him, but he was a famous basketball star! He was! His real name was World Be Free!”

Have you ever been mid-conversation when you’ve suddenly gotten the sneaking suspicion that you had just been bonked on the head and briefly rendered comatose? Mr. Crazy Eyes had gone from communism to Jesus to professional basketball in 3 minutes flat. Obviously, I had missed a fucking segue or two somewhere.

Mr. Crazy Eyes suddenly singled out the older gentleman standing in line behind me. “You remember, don’t you? You remember World Be Free!”

“Actually,” the gentleman replied, “His real name was Lloyd.” Then, under his breath, “Fucking commie.”

Clearly horrified, Mr. Crazy Eyes paused his tirade. Slowly, I glanced around the grocery store and noticed that everyone within screaming earshot of us had frozen mannequin-like to watch the scene unfold. The cashier was stiffly standing there, hand still upturned, with a perfect ‘O’ of surprised glued to her face.

“LLOYD?” Mr. Crazy Eyes shrieked a final time, “LLOYD!!!!”

Then, with one bony paw, he slapped an entire box of candy bars off of a shelf. Hershey’s bars went flying. Apparently satisfied, Mr. Crazy Eyes turned and stomped out of the store without paying for his dog food.

For a single, endless second, no one said a word.

Then, the older gentleman behind me muttered again, “Fucking Commie.”

“V!” it said, “Can you help us spell some words for our sign?”

“Sure, what do you need spelled?”

“Children!”

“C – H –I- L- D – R –E-N.”

“Under!”

“U-N-D-E-R.”

“Five!”

“F-I-V-E.”

“Allowed!”

It finally occurred to me what they were doing, so I set my book aside and went to go talk to them.

“Hey, you guys?” I asked, “Does your sign say, ‘No Children Under Five Allowed?’” I looked pointedly at the lone 4 year old at the table, who sat happily coloring with the group oblivious to the fact that she was about to be rejected.

“Is Chloe being mean or something?” I asked.

They shook their heads in the negative.

“Does Chloe ever refuse to share with you?”

Again: no.

“So why would you want to exclude her?”

They stared at the floor silently, suddenly embarrassed, and not sure how to answer my question. But it didn’t matter; I knew what they were thinking. After all, a fort isn’t any fun unless you’re keeping someone out.

I chewed my lip for a moment as I struggled to come up with the best way to handle the situation with minimal heartbreak or tears. Then I said:

“Listen guys, it’s your fort and I’m not going to tell you what to do with it. I’m not going to be mad at you or punish you if you want to keep Chloe out. But, before you make your final decision, can you just think about three things for me?”

The children nodded happily, perked up by my claims that I had not come to ruin their fun.

“OK, good,” I continued, “The first thing I want you to think about is how you would feel if you were the only one not allowed in the fort.”

The children crinkled their noses distastefully at the idea.

“After you’re done thinking about that, I want you to ask yourselves, ‘would a nice kid exclude another kid from the fort or would a mean kid do something like that?’”

The children started fidgeting uncomfortably.

“And the last thing I want you to think about is what kind of kid you want to be. A nice kid? Or a mean kid? Will you think about that stuff for me?”

“Ok V,” they muttered quietly.

“Thanks guys. I’m going to finish reading my book now. If you need anything else, let me know.”

I plopped back on the couch and immersed myself in the text. A couple of paragraphs later, I got another call from the dining room.

“V! How do you spell ‘zero’?”

“Z-E-R-O.”

“What about ‘allowed’?”

Curious, I set my book aside and made my way back into the dining room.

“We threw our old sign away,” the children enthusiastically proclaimed, “But we’re making a new one!”

“Can I see it?”

“Sure!”

The oldest girl held up a sign written in red magic marker. It said, “No Children under zero.”

I suppose it was a bit hypocritical of me not to chide them for making their new sign. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I wouldn’t want any fucking babies in my fort, either.

“A-L-L-O-W-E-D.”

I was heading back from Avon, CT on my way to Milford Saturday from a writers networking meeting. I was on my way to its annual Oyster Festival, an event that draws 40,000. Foghat was the free headliner. Bob ‘Jake’ McManus loved Foghat as a kid. I liked them too and it’s been years since I’ve heard much of their stuff.

You knew Jake was cool (albeit slightly uneven like myself) when in 6th grade at the bus stop at 7 in the morning he’d be air guitaring and scream to Slow Ride. A few of the neighbors occasionally joined us, just not as the chorus. Mostly with the Police. And not Twonicus’ Police either. The real ones who told us to mute the tunes.

My 1st mistake in the comedy of errors was staying to the left at the junction of the Merritt Parkway (Rt. 15) and I-91. Both can bring you to Milford. I was talking on the phone and if I thought about it, I’d have veered right and gone 15. I’ve read stuff that says when faced with a choice of right or left when getting in queues, left is better as most people choose right. That theory never works for me anywhere, be it the grocery store, bank, beer line. I always end up waiting longer and watch a mutant cruise by me in the other line to finish their business while I’m basically standing there with my dick in my hand. Right hand at that. Two hours later, I’m out with my one bag of chips, $20 or a lukewarm Bud Light.

I was now on 91. On a Saturday, it’s normally not too bad. The intersection of 91 and I-95 in New Haven can be a bitch, regardless of the time of day. Toss in an accident = toast. I should have figured they’d all be going to Milford. They might have been going to Milford via 15, but I’ll never know. I probably should have gone to AM traffic or cough up enough money to have the GPS give reports but, alas, I’m too fucking stupid or cheap- probably both.

About 5 miles outside of the 91/95 merge I see my 1st true warning sign that I may miss Foghat- Traffic Delay Ahead- 14 mile delay flashes.

I’m like “Fuck! 14 miles could take 5 hours to get past!”

My head races. It’s bumper to bumper. Even Michael Penn on my CD player cannot soothe me enough to get me through this.

Think– options– get off and backtrack through New Haven to 15 towards Woodbridge? They do run concurrently. I know New Haven enough (I think); but that GPS that I left home- with or without traffic updates- would be useful. “Cheap, stupid fuck” my inner voice yells louder.

There are 4 lanes waiting for the merge. I decide to get off State St. I have to almost cut people off to make the exit. I take a right, heading up State towards Yale.

New Haven is like Bridgeport. There are certain streets that if you fit my profile you wouldn’t cruise down at night as the police know if you do it’s either drugs or BJs you’re in the market for. During the day, it’s usually not bad.

Saturday was not usual.

I go down about a ½ mile. About 50 feet from a green stoplight, I see this 20 year old kid come from my left, staggering out from some parked cars. I think, that’s kind of dangerous, buddy. I slow down so he can walk in front of my car to the other side. Problem is- he can’t walk. Dawn of the Dead swagger is a better description. He twists about 5 feet in front of me. I’m stopped.

Our eyes meet.

And I take a ‘Holy Shit’ breath.

He IS Dawn of the Dead.

Your browser may not support display of this image.That’s me on the ground.

Rabid foaming at the mouth. Pupils totally dilated. Blacken teeth exposed. Legs bowed, arms contorted in the air.

He starts screaming-

“What the fuck, motherfucker—I’m going to fuckin’ kill ya!!!”

Starts flipping me the bird with both of his arthritic looking ashen hands.

There’s a guy trimming bushes at a church to my right. I have the windows rolled up, so I can’t quite hear what he’s saying but, seeing he’s at church, I figure he’s an apostle. He’s yelling something at the Walking Dead. I’m happy because gas powered hedge clippers are handy tools when fighting zombies.

He turned out to be more like a Jew in the crowd before Pilate.

Dead Boy takes a couple swivel strides towards the curb. I inch up slowly. I was going to roll down the window and politely tell him he’s gonna get hit by a car, but as I do that he comes charging towards my passenger door, bangs with all his might on the window and continues his ‘I’m going to eat you’ diatribe.

Bush Man is now closer to the sidewalk, but he’s left the trimmers. Big help he’s going to be. He’s yelling at Dead Boy, but there’s so much racket, I’m not sure who’s saying what to whom.

I decide my best move is to slowly drive away. If Dead Boy latches on to the hood, I can always pull a Starsky and Hutch. He instead decides to kick my door. Now I’m getting pissed and even though I’m without artillery, I have to deal with this.

I pull up through the stop light- maybe 500 feet. I really just want to see if his decomposing foot made a mark or if it’s now attached to my car- in which case I’ll have to go to a car wash and pay the extra ‘scraping’ fee.

As soon as I get out and head to the other side of the car, Dead Head starts running full force at me, screaming all kinds of demented, intelligible zombie shit. Unfortunately now I know I’m dealing with the REMAKE of Dawn of the Dead where they could run.

Bush Guy is still yelling at him, but has made no attempt to catch him coming towards me. Hedge clippers or not, two of us are more likely to saw off his dead bobble-head than one.

Now he’s within 20 feet of me.

What to do?

Like a fastball out of Billy Wagner’s hand, I have about .02334 of a second to decide-

1. Either stand my ground and take him on, the upside of which is he’s dead so all I have to do is either trip and pounce or just land one clean shot somewhere near his head to blast out his fucked up brains. If he isn’t dead, though, and he has, say, a knife I have yet to see- this might get a little too dangerous and I can end up dead. Walking in traffic. At noon. Yeech, not pretty.

2. Run.

If I chose option 2, Michael J. Fox would laugh at me because he didn’t do that in the Back to the Future(s).

The next thing I know, I’m scurrying around a car at the stop light, like LaDainian Tomlinson. Fortunately, Zombie Kid is no Lawrence Taylor and he can’t catch me. Finally, Bush Man comes over and corrals him, dragging his quasi rigor mortised frame with him.

Your browser may not support display of this image. Get the Fuck off me, Dead guy!

Now I call the police. I have no idea how long that’ll take as we are in New Haven and they have bigger zombie herds to battle.

Bush Man has Morgue Kid over by a car back where he started, but he’s still twirling away like an off balance spinning top and I think he may come back for round two. Option 1 will be my only choice then- even with deadly bites or .99 steak knives at risk.

Dead Boy gets into a car that’s been sitting there watching this whole debacle. Maybe this was a joke that’s already put on YouTube by some demented Yalie wanna be film student. I doubt it.

After they’re gone- and instead of talking to me- Bush Man goes back to his grounds’ keeping responsibilities, as if Zombie Boy was a dream.

I’m waiting for police. A woman with a 2 year old pulls up. Poor kid is crying.

She says “I saw what happened- he did the same thing to me and scared my kid to tears.”

Now I wish I had gone option 1 and put this motherfucker in the hospital.

The police show, take my side of what happened.

Bush Man comes over when I tell police he saw this mess.

As he draws closer, the strong smell of vodka hits me like a bad yesterday’s hangover. Holy fuck, this guy’s drunk- trimming hedges at a church- and is taking on zombies too. He multi tasks better than I do!

Then he breaks the case wide open.

“That’s my son.”

I almost screamed in pain from my jaw hitting the pavement. I could hardly control myself with “You almost let me get in a fight with your Autopsy Table Child and did nothing?”

Then I smelled him again and knew how apples don’t fall far from trees.

The cop says Dead Boy will get a bunch of misdemeanors- if they catch him.

I said I just wanted women with children in cars to be safe at this intersection. Now that he’s moved on, who knows what Romero movie antics he’ll be up to.

I’m not sure of the moral of this story. I usually like to draw them together like they do in Davey and Goliath, but I’m not sure about this.

Inadvertent bad decisions? Standing your ground vs. being a smart wuss? I don’t know.

All is do know is I did not get bitten, am not dead, and am not in the New Haven Register Police Blotter for sending a druggie to the hospital.

I’m staying to the right for the next couple weeks to see if that changes anything.

About the author: Jim McPartland is a comedy and sports writer. He pays attention to the world and tries to give something back, sometimes in the form of IOU’s.

A 4 sport referee/official, he enjoys mixing it up with many different people and looking at the glass as half full- albeit slightly discolored from minerals.

Let us know what you think about Jim - Should we invite him back? Email your thoughts to: ViolentAcresBlog@gmail.com