When Softdrinks Lose Validity

So, I was in McDonalds for lunch yesterday and it was one of those ones where you fill your own drink (because it takes entirely too much effort for the McPloyee behind the counter to do it). I filled my drink up and sat down eat my McNuggets and read and didn’t give it another thought, until I went to get a refill on my way out. It was only then that I noticed this sign.

REFILLS ARE ONLY VALID FOR DURATION OF STAY!

Now dictionary.com defines the word valid as such: 1. sound; just; well founded 2. producing the desired result; effective 3. having force, weight or cogency; authoritative 4. legally sound, effective or binding 5. logic so constructed that if the premesis are jointly asserted, the conclusion cannot be denied without contradiction 6. archaic. Robust; well; healthy

Fortunately, I knew the definition of the word valid before I looked it up though, so as I stood there at the soda fountain, I pondered what the sign was trying to tell me.

If I refilled my drink and left would my drink lose it’s reason? Would it stop producing the result of refreshing me? Would it lose it’s authority to refresh me? Would my drink become illegal?

Surely not! I didn’t think my Diet Coke was an existentialist soft drink. If I refilled it and walked outside, I was fairly certain it wasn’t going to say to me, “Al, why am I here?” And if it had, after pissing myself from freight, I would have simply said, “shut up and get in mah belly!”

I can’t imagine the physical properties of the drink changing so that it was no longer refreshing to me once outside the confines of the McDonalds and I know for a fact that it’s within my legal right to drink a soft drink in public.

Hmmm. And why is it that refills lose their validity after the duration of stay, but no such warning is given about prefills? Are prefills somehow able to counteract the effects that make refills invalid outside the premesis? I may be a smart guy, but I had to admit defeat in this case. A brighter mind than my own was needed in order to solve this conundrum, after all, I had just refilled my drink and intended to take it outside, the duration of my stay was at an end and I certainly didn’t want to be drinking an invalid Diet Coke out in public where it might harm myself or others.

So, I decided to go to the source of knowledge I frequently turn to when life’s greater mysteries have me stumped, to the sage of our time, the wisest of the wise. Of course, I’m talking about the shift manager at the McDonalds. I asked for her at the counter and the McPloyee fetched her for me.

I explained to her that I was worried about my drink. I had just refilled it when I noticed the sign that says it loses its validity when the duration of my stay was completed. My stay, tragically, was at an end though. I needed to get back to work. So, I asked her what would happen to the drink once I took it outside. She said that I couldn’t do that. I asked why not? She said it was against the rules and pointed at the sign.

I told her that I didn’t see a rule, I saw a statement of fact and it was the fact about which I was inquiring. She insisted it was a rule though. So, I took a step back and asked her to explain to me about the change in validity of the drink outside of her beautiful restaurant (though I didn’t call it beautiful to her face because I thought that might be a bit condescending). She simply replied that I couldn’t take a refill outside, which did nothing to help me discover anything about the drink losing its validity.

I tried another tactic. I asked her if I hadn’t refilled my drink and I was still drinking my original drink, would that drink still be valid after the duration of my stay? She replied that it would be.

I followed up by asking why a prefill should have validity in the outside world but not a refill seeing as they have the same physical properties and all. At this point, I could tell she was getting a little agitated with me (it can’t be easy running such a glorious eating establishment, especially one in which the laws of physics and reason don’t always seem to apply). She told me that if I left with a refill that I would be stealing.

But I paid for the drink, I insisted! It came as a part of my Value Meal! Surely it could not be stolen if I paid for it! She told me though, that I paid for the original drink, the refill was stolen. So, I asked if all refills were stolen and she said that no, refills that were consumed while I was still on the premesis were okay.

So, I asked if it was only illegal for me to take my refill outside? YES, she exasperatedly replied. What happens to people who go outside with refills, I asked? And she told me that they call the police on them.

Finally, she asked me to leave when I responded by asking if the police had a machine that could check to see if the drink was a valid prefill or an invalid refill. I was a bit upset that she was upset with me for simply asking questions, but an even greater problem loomed. I was holding a refill that would become invalid and illegal the moment I walked out that door. I told her so.

She just pointed at the door and told me to take it with me. I’ll be honest, I was a bit scared. Here I was, about the cross the threshold of soft drink validity—whatever that might be with an apparently stolen softdrink! And to make matters worse, there was a cop car in the drive thru line! I was doomed! But the big, mean lady with four inch long hot pink nails said I had to go and she had told me to take the drink with me!

I have to tell you, I just don’t get as much exercise as I used to, but as the saying goes, I’m not as good as I once was, but I’m as good once, as I ever was. Well it’s true! I’m not fast anymore, but I was FAST yesterday. Usain Bolt couldn’t have kept up with me as I scampered to the car, fired her up and peeled out of there. I didn’t want there to be any injuries to innocent bystanders when my drink lost it’s validity and I definitely didn’t want to be arrested by the cop in the drive thru for Grand Theft Soft Drink!

My heart raced! I was sweating like crazy. I gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles and drove like Matt Damon in a Bourne movie (which is to say that I hit like 7 cars but always fortuitously bounced away to safety). I made it back to work in record time. It appreared I had evaded the police! I was in the clear!!!

Only one thing remained. Regardless of the potential outcome, I had to test the validity of my stolen drink. I knew that the consequences could be disasterous. The sign’s warning was clear, but my insatiable hunger for knowledge would not be assuaged. I braced myself, took a breath, put the straw to my lips and I sucked.

I gave it a moment. I wanted to by hypersensitive to any change that may have occurred in the drinks validity, but after my harrowing flight from the authorities, I was panting and thirsty and the first thing I noticed was that my invalid drink was really, really, really refreshing! If I have to be honest, it seemed even more valid now that the duration of my stay at McDonalds had come to an end. When I was there, sure it was nice to wash down a stray bit of McNugget with my drink, but now…now I was parched from my escape and the bubbly goodness of the drink felt SOOOOOO GOOOOD going down my throat!

It turned out that the drink wasn’t invalid at all! Those McDonalds people must have been lying to me! It sure as hell produced the desired result when I sipped it! First, I was panting and parched and now I wasn’t! Woo hoo!

So, my friends, the moral of the story is this: Never trust the validity of a sign hung on a soda fountain at McDonalds. I’ve decided that those people aren’t as smart as we all give them credit for being!

On Notice: Old People

Don’t get me wrong, I think ageism is a horrible thing, as are almost all isms when you come down to it, but sometimes these geezers get the reputation they deserve and no one ever seems to call them on it.

Rest assured, my friends, that I will allow that travesty to continue no longer! It’s time someone stood up to the “Greatest Generation,” and since I have nothing better to do…

For the most part, I like old people, and even the ones I don’t like, I try to respect. I’ve gone on record before about getting caught in marathon conversations lectures from lonely geriatrics, and the seeming shock and awe I’ve conjured by holding doors and performing other acts of politeness, but I’ve got news for you old people, you may have put in more hours here on earth, but that doesn’t make the planet yours!

I found myself in a situation I’ve not been in for quite some time this past week. I was in a grocery store at around 9:30 a.m. If you ever want an example of how old people think they own the world, this is where you’ll want to make your observations.

Shopping carts must have some fountain of youth-like properties because, if you give a senior citizen a cart, all of the sudden their like a 22 year old kid in a bar with beer balls. I swear they go bumping into people just because they can. And after your ankle gets rolled by one of these hard ass geriatrics and you turn around to give them the look of death, you find them starring back at you with a look that can only be interpreted as: “Oh yeah, what are you going to do about it?”

And if the cart pushers are bad, the motorized wheelchair carts are twice as much so! Apparently, having one of those motorized carts is akin to being a double-0 operative in the service of Her Majesty, you get a license to kill. I had the audacity to pull my cart over to the side of the aisle so I could load a couple cases of Diet-Rite into it when one of these kamikaze grannies, whose sides spilled so far over the sides of the seat that they looked like actual saddle bags, actually rammed me.

Is there some law about keeping those things in the right hand lane? I mean, the left hand side was blocked as well, but the center of the aisle was wide open. Not good enough for this lady though, she wanted to travel down the aisle via the space I was occupying so she literally rammed my cart back into me.

I looked up to stare her down and she did it again, raising her eyebrows as if asking me if I wanted a fresh one? Well, I have my limits and rammed her back, before loading another case of pop on board. She was kind enough to not ram me again, but still refused to go around, using the ample space there was to continue on her way. She chose, instead, to stare me down in a manner than any witness may have come to the conclusion that I’d just impaled her cat on a parking lot bollard. Her eyebrows almost broke through her mile-high hair helmet and if I’d taken any more time they just may have made it!

Not a single word was exchanged.

And what’s with the sense of entitlement these old biddies seem to have when it comes to right of way in the aisles? Everywhere I went, it seemed I was intruding upon some old-timer’s preferred path and in every instance, they certainly felt entitled to it.

Did I mention that this entire trip to the store happened in less than 20 minutes? I can only imagine the beating I would have taken had I needed to do some real shopping! Fortunately, I was able to escape right before I lost all patience and had to hit someone’s granny.

Sadly though, I never really recovered from being on the brink of granicide and so this very morning, when I went to Dunkin Donuts for a nice hot cup of coffee and a breakfast sandwich and saw a car literally parked in the very center of two parking places with a bumper sticker that read: My Grandson is an Honor Student at Lincoln Jr. High, I felt the proverbial camel’s back snap.

Sure, I could have parked in one of the many other spots available on the other side of the building, but I chose to park sideways right behind this lady, effectively blocking her in.

I was in line for only a few moments, and boy was I happy they had a long line there today, when lil granny two-spot came back inside and asked in a highly annoyed voice, “Who’s black car is that blocking me in?”

I drive a Jeep, not a car, so I was certain she wasn’t talking to me and ignored her. She then said, in a slightly more agitated voice, “Excuse me, who’s black truck is that out there?”

Well, it’s not a truck, as you and I both know, but what the hell, I knew she was talking to me, so I replied, “You mean the black Jeep?”

Normally, I don’t care if you call it a Jeep, a truck, a car or a rolling spaceship, but I felt snobbish, so what the hell right? She skipped the lesson in automobile identification completely though and told me that she was in a hurry and that I needed to move it so she could get out.

If she hadn’t been directly in the center of two spots, I may have been a little nicer about it and moved it for her once I’d inconvenienced her by making her come back in, but she was blatantly owning the world with the way she parked and I’m a big believer that you can, in fact, teach old dogs new tricks, so I told her that I’d be out as soon as I got my coffee.

She protested. When I say she protested, what I suppose I really mean is that she got beet red and explained to me in no uncertain terms that she was in a hurry and I needed to move my Jeep NOW!

Her mistake, of course, was calling it a Jeep. Having already proven to myself that this particular old dog was capable of learning new tricks, I was resolved to teach her, as Mr. Rogers once taught me, that sharing is fun—especially parking spaces!

So, when I explained to her that, I too was in a rush and couldn’t afford to get out of line and then have to wait at the back of the line when I got back inside. She, of course, felt implied that I should have thought about that before blocking her in—and honestly, I truly do love it when a plan comes together, because that’s when I got to say this to her:

“Well if you’d only taken up one parking place, instead of two, I’d have had room to park beside you and not block you in at all, but since you took up two, I had no choice—I’m in a hurry!”

With no apparent reply, she stalked out to the parking lot and laid on her horn until I emerged with my coffee. I have to say, no one actually said anything to me, but you just couldn’t mistake the looks of admiration and gratitude the adoring fans I’d made amongst the patrons and proprietors. I was truly surprised that I was asked to pay, if I’m being honest.

I, being the polite young man my mother raised, smiled brightly at the honking lunatic lady in her 78 Buick as I took my sweet time getting in and arranging myself comfortably before pulling out of the lot.

Of course, I don’t think all old people are rude, but I don’t think it would hurt to have television shows that taught senior citizens valuable lessons, like how to share, how to have good manners and the value of being polite!

And it should start with the erasure of the “citizen” part of their name. Why do they get to be citizens when I’m just a middle-aged guy? I mean, if there were teen citizens and young adult citizens, then I’d be okay with it, but the seniors have stolen citizenship in much the same way that Africans, Asians and Mexicans have stolen the title of Americans. Where’s my title of citizenship or Americanism huh?

Well no more. Until they start acting their age, I’m advocating that we simply call them “old-timers.” Titles should be earned and walking around under the assumption that you own every bit of public thoroughfare is just cause for having your title revoked!

Consider yourself warned old-timers! Straighten up your act or we’re going to start pushing you out to sea on rickety old rafts and actually getting our fair share of the social security we’ve been paying for all of our mid-length lives!

You’ve been warned!!!

The One Where I Fix America

It occurs to me that I’m always pointing my finger and rarely providing answers, so I thought I might take a few moments of time and go ahead and fix America. So, sit back, relax and enjoy ultimate solution to all of our problems.

Our problems aren’t really anything more than problems of perception. You see, we still think we’re a country that our founding fathers could take pride in, but the truth is that we haven’t been that in quite a long time. So, the first step in my solution is to give up the notion that we’re somehow above anything or anyone. We’re really not that good at all.

Problem number 1 is a problem of leadership and that is actually a fairly easy problem to solve. Al McGuire, the famous basketball coach once stated that world is run by C students and he’s absolutely right. The problem is that the pay for our leadership positions in this country can’t attract any of the really smart people. This is one of the perceptions you’ll have to overcome. The most intelligent of our countrymen are not making the noble sacrifice to spend their entire lives serving the better good. They’re busy making more money than they could ever use. We get stuck with leaders for whom the salary is one they aspire to earning.

Patriotism is a nice concept and all and sure, we all claim to be patriotic, but when just a miniscule portion of the population turns out to vote, that whole idea of patriotism goes out the window. We aren’t a country of patriots—unless you count a 2 week period of time after a war starts or a terrorist attack occurs. We’re a country of opportunists. Unless there is a specific benefit to us, we don’t do a damn thing.

So, the key is to pay our leaders such a ridiculous amount of money that the smartest among us would be crazy not to be involved in getting into politics. Let’s get rid of the C students we have running the country and get some damn scholars running the show! It seems kind of foolish to put someone only making $400,000 dollars a year in charge of a budget that’s in the billions. Let’s put someone who’s making millions of dollars a year in charge of things.

And not just the President, because you typically have to put in some time in the Senate or as a governor before you can become president, we should boost those salaries up too.

We can’t ignore that we’re a capitalist nation, and we can’t expect the kind of people who make millions of dollars a year to take a huge pay cut just so that our country can function properly. We’ve created this monster, now we have to pay it. That’s how things work around here. I’m not saying that capitalism is a bad thing, quite the opposite actually, but if we want to attract candidates who are actually intelligent, competent and motivated, we need to pay them their fair market value. And on top of a ridiculous salary, there should be an even more ridiculous bonus system in place. Reach a goal, keep a campaign promise, fix something that’s broken like health care and your salary just keeps going up, up, up.

Make the office of President one attractive to the people who really run the country, the captains of big business. Sure, they’ll have the interests of big business foremost in their minds, but this is another area where we have to give up our delusions because the fact of the matter is that our government already caters to big business more than it does to us. Let’s just stop pretending otherwise huh?

The other major change that needs to be made is that we have to make our government profitable. The only way we’ll ever see significant tax deductions and actually get to spend the money we earn is if the government—led now by A students—is able to earn it’s own money.

How will the government earn money you ask? Simple. Naming rights. We are nothing if not sheep that are easily manipulated by marketing and branding. Our stadiums, our sports teams, our television shows, it’s all brought to you by someone. The government is talked about on nightly news shows, on the internet, in the newspapers. The exposure of our government is huge! So why not make some money on that popularity?

Imagine the possibilities! Every time the president is mentioned, instead of just saying, President Washington, you’d have to say, President Washington, brought to you by Budweiser. Imagine the Coca-cola Senate and the Gillette House of Representatives. Imagine the revenue generated in war time if we changed the name of the Third Infantry Division to the Pepsi Infantry Division? The war would fund itself—and our soldiers could actually have the equipment they need!

And it doesn’t have to stop there! Think of all the federal holidays! Take a day off when General Electric presents Martin Luther King Jr Day! Take another day off when Chevy presents Christmas! Boeing presents Labor Day! Visa presents Independence Day! We have a ton of money available to us in advertising rights that we aren’t tapping into here! Sure, it’s true, it doesn’t look good when the politicians have corporate sponsorship, but again this is a matter of perception. They already have corporate sponsorship, we just choose not to acknowledge it and therefore we don’t get paid for it.

So, let’s stop pretending and start dressing our politicians like they’re NASCAR drivers! There’s money in it for us!

The way I figure it, once we have money and have smart people managing it, all the rest will fall into line. When the United States Marines as Presented by Blue Cross-Blue Shield invade some country, don’t fret over the rights and wrongs of war. Be happy that your country just made a mint that they can turn around and use to make healthcare affordable to everyone!

Look, the ideal isn’t to have a completely unethical nation, but to think that we’re anything other than that is just ignoring the obvious. So, let’s get off our high horse and truly embrace the way we’ve sold out. Let’s acknowledge that cash is king and put this country to work for ourselves. Here you go. This is a way to get smart people running the show and a way, to pay them and to make our government work without dipping into our own pockets.

It’s simple. It’s genius. You’re welcome. That is all.

Progress

Progress is a funny thing. Over the course of my life, I’ve seen some amazing leaps in technology—in fact, over the course of anyone’s life you’ll probably find that technology and progress have reared their ugly heads in ways that seemed unimaginable to them.

When I was in high school, having a pager was the it thing. It was inconceivable to me at that time that someday soon, everyone would be carrying around phones that were roughly the same size as that beeper, and were not only phones, but also mini computers from which I could do a Google search or check my email. Of course when I was in high school I don’t think I had an email address or Google existed, but you get the point.

Virtually nothing that exists in today’s world exists in the same way it did just fifteen years ago. I say virtually nothing because there are some areas where technology and progress have been conspicuously absent.

I’m talking, of course, about the stalls in public restrooms. In this day and age of smart phones and Wi-Fi, hybrid automobiles and hi-def televisions, I’m curious as to why I still have to check for shoes and pants before entering a stall in a public bathroom?

And it’s not like public bathroom technology hasn’t improved. I don’t remember the last time I had to put forth the effort, when out in public, to flush my own toilet, turn on my own faucet or even dry my own hands. These things are all done for me now.

But upon entering a public bathroom, if I want to make sure I’m not walking in on some startled guy with a poorly locking door, I have to bend over so that my head is just below knee level and goosestep down the line so I can find an unoccupied place to shit in peace.

Let’s recap. The toilet knows when to flush all by itself, but it can’t let the guy outside know that I’m doing my business and reading the paper. Yup, that about does it.

I, for one, would welcome a bathroom stall door that didn’t expose my pants and shoes to any freak who happened into the bathroom. I assume that the reason those doors don’t go all the way to the floor is so that people can see someone else is in there. But really, if the toilet knows I’m on it, can’t it also let the folks outside know? Can’t I have a little freaking privacy that a full length stall door would provide?

What if I forget to give a courtesy flush and someone I know comes in and recognizes the pants around my ankles or the shoes on my feet? Must I suffer the indignity of being known as the guy who stunk up the bathroom for no other reason than that damn door doesn’t come all the way to the floor?

Everything and I mean everything about public bathrooms has changed over the past 10 years, except the stall design. Why? What conspiracy keeps the doors from their rightful and proper place extending down to the floor? Is it the government? Aliens? Is there a corporate alliance that somehow financially gains from seeing my rolled up pants and shoes?

There has to be a reason! Even the stalls that do show an occupied sign when you lock the door fail to extend down all the way! Someone out there doesn’t want us to have as much privacy as we’d like when we’re crapping and I want to know who—and why?

I would devote all of my time and energy to finding the answer to this question, I can assure you, if it wasn’t for a much bigger fish I have to fry, so I leave it to you, my faithful readers, to find out why this one area our lives has yet to be improved upon while I busy myself investigating the Ketchup industry to find out why in the hell they don’t use the same squeeze bottles as the mustard people, which are much more convenient and easy to use.

Good luck. God Bless. That is all.

License to kill

So a bunch of college presidents have recently gotten together and suggested they lower the legal drinking age to 18 from 21 and there’s been a big uproar over the subject. I happen to think that being old enough to die for your country and being able to have a beer should probably coincide, but those pesky mothers against drunk driving don’t agree—as militant former soccer mom’s rarely do.

I say they should throw the whole age limit out the door though. Let’s go Festivus on their asses and base all privileges in our country on the ultimate test, the Feats of Strength!

Wanna get a drivers license? Okay, fine. All you have to do is parallel park at high speed, while on your cell phone answering difficult questions, being simultaneously beeped at by the cars in front and back of you and shot at by volunteer gang members, who need target practice, using rubber bullets (this way they’ll be better able to hit their intended targets and not 4 year old kids). Do all that in 15 seconds and you can handle anything the road might throw at you. Here’s your license!

Want to be able to drink legally? No problem. The test is a simple one. Just do a 60 second keg stand followed by bending over and spinning yourself around a baseball bat 20 times like they do at picnics. If after your 20th spin, you don’t hurl and can pass a field sobriety test, you’re old enough to drink.

Want to vote? Sure thing! Pop Quiz Time! Name 3 amendments from the Bill of Rights and explain how we’ve allowed our government to bastardize them. Got that part down? Awesome! Now explain 2 issues you have with each political party (fucktards with blind loyalty to one party regardless of issues will not be allowed to vote). Ace that? That’s great! Now for the final test, spell potato! Did you add an extra e? So sorry, you can’t vote or be vice president now!

Want a marriage license? No problem. Man and Woman, Man and Man, Woman and Woman, Man and Llama—doesn’t matter. Have at least 3 years of continual dating without breakup under your belt, provide witnesses to no less than 5 fights you’ve had that you were able to work through without breakup—or threat of breakup; and bring in signed and notarized contracts signed by each mother in law in which they promise, under penalty of imprisonment that they will never criticize your spouse in any way, shape or form (including eye rolls, pffts, passive aggressive behavior, or talking behind your back).

Want a gun license? Sure thing! Just demonstrate your ability to use a lock and key, your ability to unload a gun when it’s not in use, an ability to reach up to a height that a child cannot reach and have an IQ of 100 or better. That’s it! Sorry rednecks! Pay more tension in skool and you can go back to huntin all youse wants to, but being able to spell the word gun is going to be a prerequisite for owning one from now on!

See that? Age has nothing to do with it! Turning 18 or 21 or 74 doesn’t bring with it any magical abilities to do something that you couldn’t do before. There is no such thing as a maturity switch, or an intelligence switch, for that matter. Let’s throw all these age limits out the door and start some rigorous testing instead! You want it? Earn it! Bring back the true American spirit instead of making a random age of choice one of entitlement. It’s time to institute the feats of strength into our licensing system! Come on America! What do you say????

Bumper Cars

I’m all for putting a little personality into your vehicle. The spare tire on the back of my jeep has a huge Cubs tire cover over it. At one point in my life I had personalized license plates as well, which extolled my status as a Jedi (nothing gets a guy laid quicker than having the words Jedi on his license plates, let me tell you!).

I think Calvin peeing on the symbol for a competitor’s truck is clever and the decal that makes it look like there’s a baseball lodged in your rear window is funny. My problem is the bumper stickers.

No one and I do mean no one at all cares that your kid is an honor roll student or what school little Timmy or Sally goes to either. For that matter, no one cares that your kid can beat up an honor student either. Why not just save time and get a bumper sticker that says, Hey Pedophiles, For a Good Time, Follow Me Home and Wait Until I Leave Little Timmy Alone!

I see you voted for John Kerry. That’s a nice bumper sticker. The election was over four years ago. Let it go. Bush sucked, that’s not in question, but Kerry was a weasel too so don’t sit all high and mighty about a vote you cast a lifetime ago.

It’s nice that you love your schnauzer, but how does that affect my life? If you love your schnauzer so much that you plaster a bumper sticker on a car to profess that love, there’s probably something unnatural about it and maybe you need to see someone to help you with that problem.

If I can read your bumper sticker then I’m following you too closely, huh? That’s clever. Maybe if you didn’t kick your brake more often than you might your ugly red-headed step child, we wouldn’t be having this conversation though.

If I don’t like your driving I should call 1-800-EAT-SHIT? Is that right? Well I don’t like your driving, but I prefer to express my frustration with a tire iron and a bad attitude at the next stop light. If you’d thrown a please into your request, I might have gone along with it, but I have trouble taking orders—especially from people who haven’t mastered the art of driving.

Your other car is a Porsche huh? That’s nice. Porsches are for pricks. Your other car is a broomstick? Oh, I get it, you’re a witch huh? That’s nice, now drive away before I go all Salem on your wart covered ass!

You go from Zero to Bitch in 0.6 seconds? That’s impressive, and convenient since 0.6 seconds is the exact amount of time I need to punch someone in the mouth and laugh while they spit out their teeth.

Putting a little personality into your car is one thing, but advertising the fact that you’re a moron is just plain foolish and let’s face it, most bumper stickers are moronic. It’s time to peel those suckers off and join the human race. Your schnauzer can’t read, so I promise he won’t mind. If your kid’s self esteem is based on whether or not you display a sticker proclaiming him or her as smart, you’ve got some serious problems (besides, they put any kid who doesn’t shit themselves more than three times a year on the honor roll now a days). If your politics define you as a person, that definition is not alive.

So please, for the sake of all of us who have to share the roads with you, do us all a favor and peel the damn sticker off. They don’t make you funny or witty or clever. They make you look foolish and moronic. And they make me want to hit your bumper hard so you’ll have to get a new one.

Then again, what do I know? I’m just a fanboy who’s team hasn’t won it all in 100 years.

Blow me!

What’s the deal with these hurricane names anyway? Who is the lucky guy who gets paid a government salary to think up the names for the hurricanes every year and why can’t that person do a better job of it?

The names for 2008 hurricanes are as follows: Arthur, Bertha, Cristobal, Dolly, Edouard, Fay, Gustav, Hanna, Ike, Josephine, Kyle, Laura, Marco, Nana, Omar, Paloma, Rene, Sally, Teddy, Vicky and Wilfred.

We’re currently on Fay. Yes, Fay. Fearsome, devastating, earth shattering, catastrophic, frightening Fay.

A hurricane is one of the most awesome and terrifying forces of nature and the best they could do was to name it after someone’s grandmother? Fay isn’t even remotely frightening! In fact, the whole list is full of a bunch of sissy-sally names, including, of course, Sally herowndamnself! In fact, the entire list has only one scary name on it and that of course Ike, who invokes the badass motherfuckery of Ike Turner.

I guarantee some coastline is going to get bitch slapped by old Ike! But Kyle? The name Kyle inspires about as much fear as a Playboy bunny pillowfight! Hanna? Is it a stripper or a hurricane? Or is the connection supposed to be that either way you get blown?

Rene? The French Hurricane? That sumbitch is going to surrender LONG before it gets anywhere close to land!

No, I’m afraid that whomever is in charge of naming hurricanes is doing a piss poor job, which is why I think they should hire me. I would name hurricanes in a way that would properly scare the crap out of people. If I was in charge of naming them, people wouldn’t be sticking around to see if they could ride it out! You can bet that when the talking head come onto your nightly news warning you about Hurricane Fuck You Up The Ass With A Splintery Wooden Phone Pole, that you’re going to go ahead and take some damn cover!

When Hurricane Darth Vader comes to town, you can expect to be taken over by the Dark Side! When Hurricane Samuel L. Jackson hits land, you can bet that motherfucker is going to be one motherfuckin motherfucker of a motherfucking hurricane!

Hurricane Hemorrhoid will guarantee you a burning pain in the ass that just won’t seem to ever go away! Hurricane George W. Bush will last forever and leave us all up shit’s creek. Hurricane Hitler will take out the entire East Coast! Hurricane Travolta will suck all the joy from your life for two hours and leave you $10.00 less rich and having a bad case of the popcorn shits!

The point is that I can name me some hurricanes! I’m not messing around here! There will be no Nana’s or Omar’s on my watch. A hurricane is a terrifying force of nature and they should be named accordingly. At the rate we’re going here, next years names may very well be stripper themed and our cities will be wiped out by the likes of Bambi, Crystal, Portia and Roxanne!

It’s flat out embarrassing to have to say that you got beat up by someone with a sissy name. You never want to have to respond to the question, “Oh my God! What happened to you????” with an answer of, “I got knocked out by Fay.”

Fay isn’t just a girl, she’s someone’s grandma. She bakes cookies and smiles at you through crooked dentures. Fay hasn’t blown a damn thing since the 50’s. She’s not a hurricane, she’s a rainbow.

Maybe the person in charge of naming hurricanes can be reassigned to rainbow naming. In the mean time, write your local congressman and nominate me to head up the Department of Hurricane Naming and never be embarrassed by a wimpy named hurricane kicking your ass again!

(a special thanks to Jay for the idea for this entry!)