AdventureWorld

Milk Run

Tonight after the Day From Hell I walked over to the local Safeway for milk ..because I must have milk and I’ve gone without any for days because I’ve been too tired and too sick to deal with grocery store nonsense.
So, anyways, as I’m standing all semi-comatose at the checkout stand the checker practically screams at me in one giant fucking machine-gun blast of a speech congratulationsmrsexbeloved’slastname!you’vewonafreescratcher.doyouknowhow toplayscratcher?Youscratchoffoneballfromeachcolumnandifyouhave100yards youscratchthisthinghereandseeifyouwin.
Then she flashed me the official (and Chucky-like) Safeway Smile as she thrust it at me, not only severely encroaching on my Personal Space but also knocking me into Habbaniceday, the wee Guatemalan bagger.
Checker lady did not seem to notice me flipping over Habbaniceday like a pommel horse, or the blood squirting out my ears from her scratcher speech.   But she did ask me if I needed help out …with my quart of milk.  I said “no, but thank you for the aneurysm”.
As I was walking out the twelve year-old store manager was ordering an employee to spy on the others and report to him any suspect activity.He said "I just need to know, it's not like I'm asking you to be a rat”.
I said “more like a narc” as I stumbled past him towards the door.
He said a very not-even-a-real-laugh heh, like literally he said “heh”.

I said “a stool pigeon ..a mole ..a punk”. Then I said “that’s for that fucking free scratcher” .

And when I got home I had a lovely glass of milk.

A World Without Fuckwits

Yesterday I was standing at the train station looking at the five different signs that were posted explaining that high speed trains are not only fast but also dangerous and that you shouldn’t stand on the tracks; or ride your bike on the tracks; or let your child play on the tracks; or eat your lunch on the tracks; or blahblah blahblah blah… And that wasn’t all, there was also a message playing on the speakers and an electronic ticker-tape-type sign.  It got me wondering how much nicer the world would be if it just wasn’t filled to the brim with fuckwits.
For example, if it wasn’t for the fuckwits we wouldn’t have to listen to a recording warning  us  fifteen fucking times a minute that “trains move at a high speed and cannot stop quickly”.  I think it’s a safe bet that the rest of us would inherently understand that 90 tons of steel doing 60 mph cannot stop on a dime.
We also understand that a train track is not a good place to go for a stroll, take a bike ride, or let your child run amuck.  See, we could just sit safely and quietly waiting for the train, no speakers blaring in our ears and no signs cluttering up the landscape. Wouldn’t that be lovely!
In a world without fuckwits a hummer would just be a funny name for a blowjob, not a high mobility military personnel carrier used to transport a couple of kids through the mean streets of suburbia. We non-fuckwits understand that if we aren’t in Iraq transporting troops and/or armaments we probably don’t need a Hummer. (And the fuckwits who don’t understand this should, perhaps, be sent to Iraq to find out.) 
Then we wouldn’t have to dodge for our lives every time some two-ton weapon of vehicular manslaughter veers into our path while Soccer Mommie tries to find a lost sippy-cup, drink a venti mochaccino, and talk on her cell phone all at the same time. 
Yes, it is true that even if this hypothetical menace to society had a regular car we’d still be in danger but at least we’d have a fair chance of avoiding instantaneous death and that whole embarrassing jaws of life scene. By the way don’t you just love it when the owners of these vehicular monstrosities proudly state “I bought this vehicle because it’s so safe” with no sense of irony whatso-fucking-ever.  I have to stop this, I could go on all night and it might get ugly.

Get Happy

I hate my neighbor’s dog with a seething passion.  You have to understand that it’s extremely unusual for me not to like almost any animal that’s not a cat.   I love dogs.  I used to have dogs.   I used to have dogs that I loved.   I hate this dog.   
There is nothing loveable or remotely endearing about this furry galoot.  He is a whining, growling, barking-at-all-hours malcontent.   He is the bane of my existence.   He is also, absurdly enough, named Happy.   An odd choice, indeed, for a dog who seems unacquainted with the concept.    I can think of many better names, of course—Shithead, Asshat, Fuckwit and Satan, just to name a few. 
Did I mention that he is also incredibly ugly and downright creepy looking?  He’s big and bushy and he has a dull black bad dye-job looking coat that is all matted up like a chicken’s ass.   His beady little eyes and his nose are the same color as his nappy fur so you can barely even see them, it’s like looking at a featureless face.   Tell me that’s not plenty creepy.
Happy is a total spaz.  He barks at anything and everything and once he gets started he just keeps on barking until he passes out or something.   The other night, while I was trying to sleep, he barked non-stop for fifty minutes.  Yes, I said fifty–5, 0—not fifteen, which would have been child’s play for Happy.    And, as is often the case, my neighbors weren’t at home to do anything about it.   I found out they weren’t home when I got out of my warm bed and ventured over to their house in the damp freezing cold, which is always guaranteed to wake your ass up for hours. 
You see, the neighbors secretly hate Happy as much as I do and spend as much time away from him as possible.   Happy is her parents’ dog that she is pet-sitting.   After one of Happy’s first all-nighters I ran into her as we were both bringing out our trash.   She said, with an odd combination of sheepishness and jocularity, that she hoped the dog didn’t keep me awake all night which was ridiculous because of course he did, and we both knew it.   Don’t pull that disingenuous bullshit with me, sista'.
She said thank goodness Happy was only staying with her temporarily, while her parents were on vacation.  That was four months ago.   If I had known that her parents (evidently) vacation on Mars I would have probably spoken up earlier but I kept thinking they have to be back soon.  But, no. 
So after that night I was fed up enough to go over to tell my neighbor that she had to do something about that public nuisance of hers.   She just kept apologizing and I kept saying that I didn’t want her to apologize, that I wanted her to do something about it ..like maybe put his ass in the house at night.   She said she didn’t want him in the house because he’d just tear it apart.  Well, I’m sorry but guess what?   I don’t care if he tears your house apart and spills red wine on your best dress—just make sure that I don’t hear him doing it.
The little bastard is barking  as I write and will no doubt be will barking as I sleep futilely attempt to sleep.  I hate that fucking dog.

Jesus Loves Me ..But You, Not So Much

I am a very logical-minded person and when other people say things to me that contain not one smidgen of logic I sometimes wonder how they can actually say such things without feeling like a complete idiot.  There is nothing that seems to bring this out in people like religion ..and, perhaps, politics but I don’t want to go there.
The last time I was back in Texas my aunt said some things about my illness that were not only pretty mean, in my opinion, but also entirely absent of logic.  But she was talking about God so she figured who needs logic (or compassion, evidently) when you’ve got the Almighty on your side. The mere fact that she was preaching to me about God was pretty weird to begin with because she used to do all her preaching from the bottom of a bottle of Smirnoff. 
She told me that the reason I was sick was because I wasn’t “right with God” and that if I had him in my heart I would be healed, because he was The Great Healer.  How she would presume to know anything about my relationship with God (or lack thereof)  is beyond me but that's not the point so I won't digress. (shutup!)
I told her that there was a fatal flaw in her theory because my disease is genetic, therefore that meant (if I used her God-model) that the God she says will cure me actually gave me the disease in the first place.  He smote me with genetics. 
She made some comment that, thankfully, I can’t remember verbatim but the gist was that perhaps I deserved it ..but, hey, no worries! He could fix it if only I would let Jesus in.  (In my head I pictured God blithely saying “Bygones!” as he pulled a lightning bolt out of my head.)
I told her that her God sounded like a real Mean Daddy.  And that doesn't fit with my concept of a higher power which is more about love and not so much about the smiting or fucking with your head just for fun. I explained that it would be pretty cheesy if God gave you a disease just to show you that he could cure it if you jumped through a few hoops.  I mean really, that’s like a bad lounge act of omnipotence. 
And, also, I mentioned that since I was born with this gene I found it hard to understand what heinous thing I could have done as a fetus to incur the wrath of his disease-wielding sword (I added “for fuck’s sake!” in my head). 
My sister-in-law was waiting nervously (but kind of eagerly) for me to really unload and let my aunt have it but I just let it drop.  It really wasn’t making me angry—the whole thing was too fucking absurd.  And anyway, there’s no talking to people when it comes to religion.  They don’t want to accept that other people have different concepts of God that might be valid.  I believe they can’t accept other people’s beliefs because they see God as a black and white/right or wrong thing and if anyone else could be right then it would have to mean that they are wrong.  I think what appears to be self-righteous smugness may really be fear; people don’t want their beliefs shaken, it’s scary biscuits.
Anyway, I told my sister-in-law to just be thankful that I didn’t tell my aunt that I’m a student of Buddhist philosophy.  I figured that would just be mean-- there’s no need to freak her out with thoughts of me roasting in hell.  I think that Jesus would probably approve of my turn the other cheek attitude but don't tell my aunt.  She's pretty down with the Jesus-loves-me-but-not-you philosophy. 

He’s Jesus, Buddha, and Mohammed, But You Can Just Call Him The Avatar

Well, shout hallelujah, praise Allah, and say bye-bye to those pesky problems caused by religious nutjobs trying to validate their righteousness in that timeless game of My God Can Beat Up Your God.  There’s no need for religious conflict because it’s all been a big mistake.  Everybody’s god is really the same god, and his name is Meher Baba.  Thank God (or should I say Thank Baba?)  that the truth has finally come out.
How do we know that Meher Baba is telling the truth?  Well, evidently we are suppose to believe it because he says so, and he has Divine Authority.  According to The Avatar, as he likes to be called, (and what god doesn’t like to have a cool nickname) we just have to believe him because he is here as part of his Divine Plan, almost all of which is outside the range of our knowledge. This Plan is the Divine Mystery, since the limited human intellect is incapable of knowing everything and cannot fathom how He does His universal work. So He comes to do what He alone can do.
Wow, The Avatar has more balls than Michael Moore!  First he insults our intelligence and then he asks us for nine bucks to see his movie.  Trying to make a buck off our ignorance doesn’t seem very god-like to me.  I mean really WWJD?  He would probably feed us fish, pour us a glass of wine, and tell us a story.  He would not take our hard earned money or put his face on a goofy-ass poster that looks like the cover of a Yanni CD. Certainly not! Jesus was way cooler than that.  So was Buddha, of course.  I can’t really comment on Mohammed because I don’t really know the guy.

That Levitra Woman

I hate that Levitra commercial where the woman is lounging around in Her Man’s shirt discussing Her Man’s penile erection quality.  Why can’t Her Man just talk about it himself?  Has the Levitra diverted so much blood to his johnson that it has left him unable to speak?  Or is he off somewhere with the Victoria’s Secret catalogue trying to rid himself of that four-hour-boner that you should contact your doctor about?
Meanwhile, she blathers on about the frequency and quality of Her Man’s trouser tents in this coy, yet triumphantly smug way.  It seems as if her talking to the camera is supposed to be her dishing the dirt with a girlfriend.  A girlfriend who never gets any even low-quality pokes from her man.  A girlfriend that will be so envious that she will make her husband get his limp dick down to the doctor’s office for some Levitra, if for no other reason than just to shut that smug bitch up.
Finally, the wielder of the mighty sword kind of sleepwalks into the frame, looking slightly dazed, but downright giddy.  He looks like he just smoked some really good weed. Then they dance around the living room, like we all do after a good lay, but their lighting is way more flattering than ours.