Another “I’m stuck at home because my car sucks” Post

30 06 2008

I can’t stress how much I hate driving in San Marcos while it’s raining. My back tires are slightly bald, and my clutch is a little touchy. Combine those two facts with the joy of driving on the the rain-slick hilly landscape of San Marcos’ northern borough, where I live, and you might understand my feelings. It’s terrifying. 

Seriously. 

I swear a good deal in normal speech. Something in my genetic makeup requires that what comes out of mouth be punishable by law. I can’t control this habit. However, when I’m sliding downhill-diagonal backward through a tight S-curve, I find myself incapable of swearing. I say things like “Dear me!”

I shit you not.





Are we coming to the end of a presidency, or are we being led?

26 06 2008

Something about the sudden popularity of offshore oil drilling strikes me as peculiar. On the one hand, you could say that offshore drilling has its drawbacks, and was held back as a very-last resort. On the other, it could also be stated that George W. Bush is a Texas oilman, who knows a thing or two about how to market petrochemicals.

Here comes the rope-a-dope, folks. As a man whose entire family fortune is based primarily in the oil business, Dubya damned well knows that offshore drilling produces results. There’s like an entire subculture that has sprung up around people who work on offshore rigs. It’s not like offshore drilling is unheard-of, so the situation seems to be a little contrived.  





I accidentally discovered I’m gay.

25 06 2008

How did I come to this conclusion? Well, I drew this thing:

Because I thought it would “be kinda cute”. 

Sorry Kelly.

Sorry Dad.

Sorry Jesus. 





The Hippie Contagion

25 06 2008

The one thing I truly hate about San Marcos, I’ve decided, is the passive-aggressive nature of its inhabitants. In a town of thirty-thousand college kids and all the misguided idiot bullshit those crazy kids can think up, people are infuriatingly mild. Nobody wants to offend anyone, so as a result nobody ever has a fucking opinion on anything.

I’m a fan of a good old-fashioned healthy debate, but in this town it’s nearly impossible to hear someone voice an opinion that isn’t homogenized to the point of utter impotency. “That sucks” is a phrase only heard under the most severe conditions, and practically never when it’s about something someone else might enjoy. A quick example:

Did your grandmother die in a car wreck while on her way to complete the will granting you millions of dollars?

“That sucks.”

Did you hear that new Nickleback song on the radio? 

“It’s, I mean, I guess it’s okay if you’re into that kind of music, which I’m not, but it’s sort of not so bad. Some people like it.”

Sounds like exaggeration, right? I’ve got to be blowing things out of proportion again. Sadly, that’s about right: no one will say anything sucks if there’s the slightest chance someone else might disagree. People in this town are fucking terrified of confrontation.

I guess it’s mostly the fault of all the college kids, the majority of whom are smarmy glad-handers who wouldn’t say a negative thing about anything unless everyone else is saying it, too. Annoying assholes. 

Me, I have opinions. I like to debate things, and if I think something sucks, I’ll damn sure tell you to your face. You should see the looks I get sometimes. It’s amazing. I’ve seen a whole gas station full of filthy oh-so-fucking-hip nineteen-year-olds collectively cringe when I said I hated American Idol. American Idol! 

Are you fucking kidding me? Since when did being in college mean that you had to check your opinions against everyone else’s? I thought higher education bred dissent from the norm. No, now it breeds consent. It breeds conformity. It breeds a generation of pussies.

The worst part is that, every so often, I find a kindred spirit. I’ll say something about something else, and I’ll catch someone smiling nervously behind their hands, afraid to show their amusement. These poor fools. They’re worse off than the college students, in that at least the students are self-righteous enough to think that what they’re doing is the only way to do things.

Those sorry bastards who crawfish every time they hear someone like me call someone else an ignorant dick have it so bad, I can’t even imagine being where they are. Is it so hard to just say “That sucks” without fear of reprisal? Do you honestly have to apologize every time you have something to say? I can get behind trying to live in harmony with your neighbors, but I’ll be goddamned if my neighbors’ feelings are going to affect my observations and opinions. I like this town, but it’ll be a cold day in Hell before I start mincing words just because some hyper-liberal Green Nazi* vegan poli-sci major doesn’t like my views on Barack Obama. Fuck those people. 

*”Green Nazi”, by the way, is my term for this new breed of anti-everything liberal whose only apparent purpose in life is to make everyone else as miserable as they are. “Save the trees, but fuck the people” is their motto. Fuck them. And the trees.





It’s like deja vu, except not all over again.

25 06 2008

You ever have one of those mornings where you wake up feeling like someone just pulled the wool over your eyes in a major way? Like maybe you missed out on something, and nobody’s telling? It’s the sort of feeling you got in elementary school, when you’d wake up at your regular time, only to remember that you were supposed to be there an hour earlier to leave for the class field trip to the zoo. It’s that “Well, fuck” hopeless feeling when you have a flat, no spare, and a pretty good idea of who slashed your tire.

It’s the Snake-eyes Effect. That’s what I call it, anyway. That feeling when a crapshooter rolls blanks and the whole room gets brought down. How, even if you’re not really aware of the possibility, you just know there’s a letter from the county attorney in your mailbox, or that your sick relative who was “in remission” is now in the morgue. It’s a pervasive feeling, but not one that can be nailed down and analyzed. 

Anyway, that’s how I felt when I woke up this morning. “Someone’s fucking me around,” I thought. “Some asshole is shitting all over my nice Wednesday before it’s even really begun.”

I don’t know who exactly it is, or what’s going on, but rest assured that by the end of the day, I’ll know. It’s going to be something big and stupid and formerly unavoidable. It’s also likely to not even involve me, but somehow I’ll be dragged into it anyway.

Count on it.

More on this later, as the story develops.





How to snag a “good one”

24 06 2008

I’ve said on more than one occasion that my girlfriend kicks ass. It’s still true; she still kicks ass. I’ve had posed to me the question of acquiring such a girlfriend–not the exact one, mind–and each time I’ve drawn a blank. How exactly do you go about hooking up with someone who just all-around rocks? 

Well, after a lot of research, the core of which involved trying to remember colors of shirts, I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no fail-safe way to get an awesome girlfriend. It either happens, or it doesn’t. Sometimes, it really doesn’t, and you end up with a nosebleed-crazy knife enthusiast. Maybe it’s safer to just not try a formula, you know? Wouldn’t want anyone to get stabbed.  

Then again, you could always do what I did:

The frightened cry of a trapped The Girlfriend often sounds like \

Remember, it wasn’t easy to trap this one. For one, she was already wearing a helmet, so I couldn’t just give her the ol’ caveman club-and-drag. It took skill, dexterity, and above all, a very safe-looking snare to catch her. 

In the end, though, all that really matters is that my girlfriend is awesome. Not awesome enough to avoid a snare loaded with amazingly lifelike kitten robots (live kittens), but still, pretty damned awesome. 

**Edit**

Also, if you’re going to be leaving your newly snared The Girlfriend alone for any amount of time, be sure to secure all lines and knots. 

Steve Austin and myself in seventh grade would be proud of this Stunner.

They’re crafty creatures, those The Girlfriends.





Seven more words you can’t say on television: “Holy shit, George Carlin died last night.”

23 06 2008

So I’m standing at the pump about 7:45 this morning when the clerk at the Yellow Store pokes his head out of the drive-through window. 

“Hey man, did you hear George Carlin died last night?”

“No shit?”

No, as it turns out–no shit at all. He actually died last night, leading speculators to decide that sometimes bad things happen in the public eye that don’t get blown out of proportion. He just died. A little surprising, perhaps, but certainly nothing to fret about. He was old, had lived a “full” life, and had survived a decades-long struggle with controlled substances. It was time for him to go.

Or was it?

I’m going to try to be the first to say that Carlos Mencia murdered George Carlin. It was a deliberate, calculated move, designed to remove one of the few really original comics from the ring of political humor, where Mencia has stationed himself for God knows what reason. You see the plot covers two key aspects, each enough to kill for for Carlos Mencia. (ED NOTE: By the way, I find this paragraph considerably more suspenseful when voiced in the somber tones of Robert Stack.)

One, it eliminates Carlin from the global arena, thereby freeing up a literal fuck-ton of easily stolen and assimilated jokes. Watch as Mencia swells to several times his original size, fed healthily by Carlin’s hard work.

Two, it ensures that George Carlin himself cannot step forward to declaim, or maybe sue, the shit out of Mencia’s plagiarism. The single person with a righteous complaint is now dead, so Carlos can go ahead and steal the jokes he was going to steal anyway, only this time with George Carlin very much a dead person who can’t sue.

I know, it’s complicated.

Anyway, I’m going to make the hesitant assumption that I’m not the first dumbass to think such a thing about the death of George Carlin. Instead, I just want to say thanks, Mr. Carlin, for teaching us what words you can’t say on television, the bulk of which are still prohibited from most kinds of prime-time television.