You see, as I drove through my podunk little town, a small cross-street was completely closed to traffic due to repairs. At first I was pissed because of the inconvenience (we Americans LOVE convenience), but my spirits were quickly lifted when I saw THE SIGN. That glorious SIGN! This road-sign was unlike any other I had seen before. It was a strident beacon of hope and new-found prosperity.

It read, “Keep America Working. This project funded by the Economic Recovery and Reinvestment Act.” Oh, glory! I had to stop to speak with the workers, to get their stories of success.

I approached a hardy-looking fellow wearing Dickies overalls. I introduced myself and asked him about the project. He told me they were resurfacing a 50-yard section of the side-street and the project would be complete in two days. I asked, “Then what?” He responded simply, “Dunno. I hope something else comes up…” Did you catch that? He said “hope.”

Obama is a man of his word. He had clearly instilled hope in these workers: I hope I can find more work… I hope the bank doesn’t foreclose… I hope I have enough money for groceries… I hope no one in the family gets sick… I hope…

I swear these two guys have been conspiring (or betting) to convert me. The Baptist is hell-bent (yeah, pun intended) on getting me to his church. I’m not sure if he has a conversion quota to meet or if he’s just looking for some poor-sap to sacrifice (I was raised Catholic, so don’t think I don’t know what goes on in those places.) Whatever his reason is, you’d think he’d catch on after I have politely declined several times.

The Methodist is a nice enough guy. He takes a less direct way to force Jesus into my life. See, a conversation cannot be had with this man without him forcing an awkward, out-of-context reference to god, or Jesus, or The Lord, into the mix. For example, I say, “Nice day huh?” and he responds with, “These are god’s gifts to his children.” Okay, it couldn’t be the high-pressure system that moved in overnight, eh? I usually just reply with, “Yep” or “Uh-huh.”

All I know, is that sometimes I would just like to mow my fucking lawn with no interruptions, or talk about angels or church. I mean, for shits-sake, I’m usually mowing it on a Sunday! Isn’t that sign enough that I’m a hopeless, sabbath-breaking-man-devil?! I think I’ll tell the Baptist I’ll go to church if he mows my lawn for me…

I have learned that no matter what the situation is, if someone gives you an ultimatum, you should do the exact opposite of THEIR desired outcome.   Another thing about ultimatums, ever notice they often start with a “you need” statement?  Total bullshit.  Some examples…

• “You need to choose between her or me.”  Proper Response: “Hit the fuckin’ road toots, I chose her.”

• “You need to pick up the pace or find somewhere else to work.”  Proper Response: “Blow me, douche-bag.”

• “You need to clean your room or find somewhere else to live.”  Proper Response: “Shut your pie-hole or I’m tellin’ Dad you’re sleepin’ with the mailman.”

• “Your money or your life.”  Proper Response: “You ain’t got the guts, you sorry little turd-burglar.”

Do you think John Wayne would put up with that crap?  Hell no he wouldn’t!  He’d reach down between his legs and grab his cast-iron balls and smack someone over the head with ‘em.  Don’t put up with any ultimatum – ever.  Nothing, nothing is worth more than your pride… not your girlfriend, not your job at Hardees, and certainly not your life…

Okay, maybe your life, but certainly not your crack-whore, cheatin’ momma’.

Can ABC be more transparent in their attempts to corral Twilight-humping fan-addicts? What a steamy pile of crap that show was. The only highlight for me was the hot chic with the British accent, who used to be on Boston Legal. She could suck on my neck any time.

It’s not just the vampire-loving freaks who are clearly on the receiving end of ABC’s marketing attempts, but the show also features a super-gay, high-tech security command post. There are tons of futuristic monitors and other cyber-crap that wreaks of CSI or other pop-culture crime shows.

If this show is still on after six episodes, I will personally flog myself with a copy of Twilight at the local shopping mall. The Gates is uber-dumb. The acting, especially the acting by the staff in the The Gates security command center, is poor at best. How someone succeed in selling this concept is beyond me…

For the next few hours I rode all around through various suburban areas. I initiated the motorcycle wave with nearly every biker I saw. The vast majority of them did acknowledge me, mostly with the awkward head nod. I counted 46 interaction with bikers of various types in that time. Of all those interactions, there was only one situation where I was pretty sure I was going to get my ass-kicked.

I approached a red light on a heavily-traveled road in a commercial area. Opposite me across a vast intersection, was the mother-load… There had to be nearly 20 or so bikers; it was a club of some sort. Most were riding cruisers, but some were on touring bikes as well. As the light changed and I began to ‘accelerate’ I initiated the motorcycle wave. Most of the bunch completely ignored me. A received a few glares, but not so much as a head nod was thrown in my direction. Two big, ugly-looking mugs near the back of the bunch slowed and as I continued on I looked back to see them making a U-turn. They were now coming up behind me. Shit. With a simultaneous burst of adrenaline, I had the thought that perhaps my experiment wasn’t such a great idea.

I swear that the Vespa was going even slower now than before. Perhaps it was from the weight of all the bricks I was shitting. The sound of the two evil-biker dudes’ bikes was loud and very close to me. I initiated a tactic I only use in extreme situations such as this. Knowing full-well they were right behind me, I acted like they weren’t there… If I don’t look at them, there can’t be any threat, right? Shit. In an instant the two burst info full acceleration and blasted right past me – clearly looking back at me. I was very close to initiated the motorcycle wave again but thanked the reason in me from winning out the battle with the smart-ass in me. They continued on and out of sight… Pussies.

Ironically, it was at this very point that the time I had allotted for my little experiment had expired. I took the Vespa back to Joe’s and compiled the following results from my experiment:

23 – head nods
16 – completely ignored
4 – clearly laughed at me
3 – gave me the finger

See you on the road…

Anyway, I really want one so I can do the motorcycle wave to other riders as they pass (but dear god, I would never wave to some low-life on a crotch-rocket). You know THE wave, right?

You drop and straighten your arm to your side as the opposing rider approaches. There is no actual waving motion that takes place in the traditional sense… Hell, you’d probably look like a fag doing something like that.

The motorcycle wave, to me, is a sort of social anomaly to me. The wave transcends nearly all socio-economic differences. For instance, you could be a piss-poor biker dude passing a pompous weekend rider and elicit THE wave. Chances are very good that if both riders are riding the same class of bike, waves and maybe even a nod will be exchanged. It’s so cool!

Now, I decided to test the motorcycle wave’s limits of brotherly-love, er…tolerance. My friend, Joe, has a Vespa. A Vespa, though absolutely fun to ride is not really a motorcycle… at all. It is best described as a cute step-up from a moped.

On a clear, summer day last week, I borrowed Joe’s Vespa for the day to do some experimenting. For the next four hours, I rode that Vespa like a Swedish whore…

Check back tomorrow, I’ll be posting the results of my experiment.

Seriously? Are you really this lame? You have nothing better to do with your time than to search for Lindsay Lohan jail photos? Whatever, here you go…

lindsay lohan jail photo

Perhaps in a previous life I was even more of an asshole than I am now, and I am paying for those sins each day. There are so many troubling things about my day job.

There’s a stupid old-lady who works the entrance security desk. She can barely lift her pen without shaking, yet she is head-sheriff of shit-town. She is there to protect me. I’m as good as dead when one of my nutter co-workers stops taking his meds and starts shooting the joint up. At least that would make my job more interesting.

The coffee they brew emits an odor not unlike deep-fried bat-scrotums. One sip of that twice-burnt-brew will make you pucker so tight you’ll piss your pants. No amount of sugar, cream, or Cheetos can fix that black-death into something remotely palatable.

There is a deli in the building. They serve chicken fajitas wraps that have cranberries in them. Who the fuck thinks that that is okay to do? Mexicans are making these things… What part of Mexico is known for cranberry-laden fajitas, and why have we not declared war on them yet? You don’t do that to someone. After my first bite, my taste buds had convulsions then swore revenge upon me.

Woo-hoo. I get to go back in mere hours.

Obnoxious, faggy, elevator, whitebread music + over-the-top obnoxious, dork fans = source of my hatred for Dave Matthews and his shitty band

I can not describe Dave Matthews as anything less than eardrum abuse. The dear lord gave the man the most perfect cartoon-voice and he goes off and wastes his talent on puss-contempo-rock. Aside from his stupid voice, his music just sucks. It is crapola-extramaximus. Dog shit on a hot summer day couldn’t stink as bad as his songs.

Now, if you happen to be a Dave Matthews fan, I do apologize (on your behalf, because you clearly lack taste). I would rather rub my dick up and down a cheese-grater for an hour than listen to you talk about how AWESOME the ‘Dave’ show was. Face it, you are a souless drip if you payed for that punishment.

But hey, everyone’s entitled to their own opinion. Yours just happens to suck hairy mice balls.

America is still the greatest nation on earth. Bless the country!

Try not to blow off any limbs. Enjoy