Tuesday, June 24, 2014

A True Redskin is a Potato


Now, ordinarily I’d take the whining saps trying to change the world of sports, direct them to the closest latrine and have them clean the floor with their tongues.

But this time the whining saps just may be on to something.

Forget the concussions issue – how do you tell folks making seven- and eight-figure salaries are afflicted? They act like they’ve been continuously kicked in the head since 1992 anyway.

Forget the gay-bashing issue – Do these guys really think Michael Sam is the first gay man in an NFL training camp?

No, the bandwagon I’ll gladly jump on while pounding the loudest drum is the Lose the Redskins as a Mascot Express.

To my mind this takes about as much thought as deciding when to breathe.

“Redskins” is a term that has never been anything else besides a racial slur, and for anyone to argue otherwise is only to showcase one’s brain-dead stupidity.

Quick, let’s take the Insult the Ethnic Group Quiz:

Niggers? Check, I understand who you’re referring to.

Crackers? Yep, know that one.

Kikes? Uh-huh.

Krauts? You see where we’re heading here?

Redskins – what group do ya think we could be referring to?

Yessir, folks, there’s no way the word “redskin” is, was or will ever be a compliment.

Yet, there is a professional team in what is arguably the most popular sport in the country and that happens to play in our nation’s capital, that features, nay, revels in, that nickname.

Now, if  we were talking about insulting white people, black people or even brown people, this nickname would have been gone anywhere from 20 to 200 years ago. But these are just Indians, man. Realistically, how much of a fuss are these guys going to kick up? There’re probably only about 10,000 of ‘em on the planet.

So what are they going to do, fire a few flaming arrows at somebody? Paint their faces and attack a few settlers’ homes?

The bottom line here is that the Native Americans have zero power, zippo political pull and really aren’t necessary to court as a block of potential voters.

They’re a major minority, that is being dumped on, spat at and kicked in the soft spot by a bunch of greedy white assholes that screwed them over and stole their land a couple of hundred years ago and now think nothing of committing more of the same types of atrocities today, while stripping away what little self-respect they’ve maintained .

That said, do you think anyone of any substance is going to stand up for their cause?

Are you kidding?

Instead, if these knuckleheads have their way, there’ll continue to be a bunch of buffoons dressing like their convoluted picture of how a native American dressed a couple of centuries ago, sitting in the first row of a football stadium and doing a retarded war dance every time the home team scores.

And that’s not supposed to be demeaning?

Not surprisingly, the folks who are fighting for the Redskins to keep their name appear to be a load of right-wing nut jobs who somehow are equating a possible team name change with the attacking of the World Trade Center.

How dare it be suggested they stop being racist pigs.

Hey, nimrods, it’s an unnecessary insult to a proud group of people who through the duration of their systematic expulsion from their true native land have done nothing but try to keep their heads held high.

In other words, they’re acting more like Americans than the Americans who are figuratively pulling down their pants and tweaking their noses. If you want to start waving the flag in the face of this issue, perhaps you might consider what that flag stands for.

Life, liberty, pride – those same wonderful traits you think nothing of trying to strip away from minorities who only wish to be treated like honest-to-goodness American citizens.

And don’t they deserve to be thought of as proud Americans rather than somebody’s mascot?

 

 

 

Monday, June 2, 2014

Blow Up or Throw Up


After very little thought, I’ve come to the conclusion that Norristown needs to be nuked, done away with, put out of its misery – take your pick.

I reached this conclusion while driving through Norristown’s deplorable streets, sitting at its interminably long stop lights and dealing with its population, most of which is a walking, talking full-page advertisement for the death sentence.

Being the sweetheart of a guy I am, and in the process of recovering from my kidneys being rattled for the 853rd time while driving over potholes that have been ignored by what passes for local government, I actually attempted to come up with something positive about this borough, municipality or whatever it’s being called this week - and came up virtually empty.

And I really tried.

I like Elmwood Park Zoo. Beyond that, several bombing runs are the only cure for what ails this once-proud burg.

Quick, name any store, restaurant, building, hell, anywhere you’d willingly care to venture in this garden spot turned garbage dump.

Culture? Ain’t none in these parts, Baba Looey.

A decent restaurant? I imagine there may be a few places that may not induce full-on, all-night vomiting. But I haven’t run across one.

As for its traffic lights, Norristown still features that type first installed in this country in the 1960s that work off a timer. In other words, you move when the light changes, not when you’re the lone driver in the intersection. So, while you wait for the light to change, you’re subject to whatever dangers exist in that area. And in Norristown, that can mean anything from panhandlers with attitudes to carjackers with large weaponry to drunks with attitudes and large weaponry.

The worst part of this tale of good town gone to hell is that, like many metropolises now in the final stages of degradation, Norristown used to be a very nice, very attractive spot. Downtown was a bustling, hustling cornucopia of interesting stores, friendly faces and mom-and-pop eateries that served unique, stomach-pleasing fare.

Oh, the Friday nights I spent there as a child, following my parents into places like “Woolworth’s” and “John’s Bargain Store.” And if I were really lucky I’d get to go into the “Herman’s Sporting Goods” store, where tykes could revel in all of the must-haves of male childhood, like football helmets and baseball bats.

Inevitably, the evening on the town would end at the “Norris” movie theatre, where the latest first-run double feature would have me and the folks smiling and chatting as we walked back to the car, and all the way home.

There was a time when my mom worked at the long-defunct “Chatlin’s” department store on Main Street, and who could forget that spot’s wooden floors that magically creaked wherever you walked.

Their candy machines were first class, and for Christmas there was that long yuletide display that led directly to the toy department.

Oh, the memories.

Now?

Good luck walking any place on Main Street where you’d feel safe or comfortable. As for the stores, there are virtually none, unless you have something to pawn or an iffy check you need to cash.

There’s nary a friendly face to be found, although these days the blank looks far outweigh the threatening ones.

So what’s there to do with this foul-smelling snake pit of a town?

Clear the decks, warn a handful of the populace and begin the bombing.

There’s a good chance the roads may actually be improved, or at least not made worse, by a little bomb-created bedlam.

When the smoke clears, the process of rebuilding can begin.

Although if those that remain decide to leave things as is, there’s an excellent chance no one will notice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saturday, May 3, 2014

Creation for Dummies


For being the self-proclaimed leaders of the free world, Americans sure are dumb.

And day-by-day they seem to be getting dummer and dummerer.

Ran across the results of an Associated Press-GfK poll (whatever the hell that is) in which Americans were asked to express their degree of confidence in certain statements.

Now, some of the statements were slam dunks, such as the one that proclaimed that smoking causes cancer. In those types of statements, the majority of the red, white and blue gang voted an overwhelming and resounding “Yes.”

But when it came to statements regarding what many would consider scientific fact, those descendants of George Washington and Betsy Ross suddenly turned into what too many Americans already are – bible-thumpin’, close-minded chuckleheads.

Despite virtually every scientific mind (without a political agenda) proclaiming that the world is going through a potentially cataclysmic climate change, caused by the trapping of man-made gases in the Earth’s atmosphere, one that could soon turn places like Nevada and Pennsylvania into beachfront property and Florida and New York City Harbor into modern-day replicas of the lost city of Atlantis, the astute minds of America would choose to believe that everything is just hunky dory.

 It’s just a coincidence, they insist, that an iceberg twice the size of the city of Atlanta is currently floating through the southern oceans toward the tip of South America with the potential to bollocks up the shipping lanes in that area (along with raising the water level). In fact, an average of four of 10 polled did not believe that the world is going through a climate change.

Now folks, no one ever accused yours truly of having even the slightest hint of a scientific mind. About the extent of my expertise in this area was knowing what science-genius classmate to sit next to during tests in high school chemistry. But it doesn’t take Mr. Wizard to figure out it must be a tad on the tropical side for a 270-square mile chunk of ice to break away from the frozen mass of an iceberg the size of Rhode Island.

So in this matter, I just might be inclined to vote for the guys and gals in the white coats that have enough protractors and stethoscopes to properly figure this stuff out.

But don’t you worry for a moment about these trivialities, the star-spangled masses say, no matter the dilemma, our biggest, bestest buddy God won’t allow anything bad to happen to us. What we’re experiencing is just a minor bump in the meteorological road, it’s merely a coincidence. Don’t you remember that summer back in 1975 when the same crazy things happened with the weather?

Which leads us to another statement in the poll that has to do with confidence in the statement that  Earth has evolved through natural selection, a process some have dubbed the Big Bang Theory.

This is one of my favorites because there are still a whole lotta reasonably intelligent folks who won’t let go of the Sunday School lesson that told us that God created the heavens and the earth and that it took six days. And on the seventh day God rested.

OK, so let’s get this straight – these zombies are willing to discount the idea that this planet and its countless number of species have become what they have become due to an intricate evolutionary process based on very specific survival needs, but instead choose to believe that a spiritual being bathed in white light flittered about with a magic wand creating grass, dirt and water all out of thin air, along with every living creature from antelope to zebra, without so much as batting an eye.

And then, although this spirit is supposedly All-Powerful, He or She or It had to rest for a full day.

Oh well, I guess that’s why it’s called faith.

In the poll, 51 percent of the participants questioned the Big Bang Theory; while I’m sure the other 49 percent was wondering why the places these lunkheads flock to for worship on the weekends aren’t paying their fair share in taxes.

In perhaps the biggest socks rocker since Sarah Palin couldn’t remember what magazines she reads, in those poll questions that dealt in taking the science explanation over the spiritual explanation, self-proclaimed Christians almost unanimously voted for the Big Guy in the Sky (if you could only see the look of shock on my face).

Try to understand this folks, your faith is admirable, even cute in a naïve kind of way. But the question that needs asked is why the scientific community would perpetuate these ideas if they had no merit?

They’re not getting brownie points for their findings. They’re not exempt from the Armageddon they’ve forecast just because they’ve discovered the possibility of it happening.

They’re in the same hellbound handbasket as the rest of us.

Plus, the vast majority of these learned people are the same God-fearin’ folk you sit next to in your house of worship.  They have no axes to grind, they’re not trying to convince the population that there is no supreme being. They’re just coming across the same types of life questions we all ask and finding answers the best way they know how.

And those answers point to what they see as a fact – if the people of the world continue figuratively pissing on the planet, we’re all headed up ol’ Fecal Creek.

If you choose to believe that the bearded guy in white pajamas is gonna save you, I wish you well.

But boy, are you dumb.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friday, March 14, 2014

Every Day is a Holiday


With St. Patrick’s Day mere hours away, I actually heard some nimrod in the office the other day refer to the weekend prior to it as St. Patrick’s Day weekend, as in, “I don’t want anything to ruin my St. Patrick’s Day weekend.”

Now, presupposing that the douche bag who would utter such tripe has a functioning brain, my reaction was to ask why, as in “Why would anyone give holiday status to such an inconsequential day as St. Patrick’s Day?”

For that matter, why do days like St. Patrick’s Day, Valentine’s Day, Flag Day, Veterans Day, Groundhog Day and Columbus Day even exist?

They serve no purpose. Only government workers, who deserve extra days off as much as millionaires deserve more money, benefit from some of these bogus days scratched into the calendar every year.

Is there anything wrong with their existence? Probably not. But at the same time, why should anyone actually care they exist?

Let’s take these meaningless days one at a time.

St. Patrick’s Day is, of course, associated with the Irish, although St. Patty himself was either Scotch or English, depending on what fairy tale you choose to believe. His claim to fame was being kidnapped by pirates as a young boy, dreaming of God coming to him in a dream and following God’s word and baptizing the people of Ireland, then mostly heathens, into the Christian faith. He used the shamrock to explain the concept of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost (why must these words be capitalized?).

St. Patrick died, conveniently enough, on March 17.

Nice enough tale, but hardly reason for a Polish dock worker living in Teaneck, N.J. to go out on the town, drink enough green beer to drown a dolphin and throw up on his shoes.

So why is the day even celebrated? Probably for the same reason people go out on New Year’s Eve – it gives ‘em a reason to drink enough imported beer to drown a dolphin and throw up on their shoes.

Next, we’ll lump together Valentine’s and Veterans Day because they both fall into the same category – which is, taking one day a year to honor those that should be honored every day.

Valentine’s Day? Great, if you own a flower store or peddle chocolates. But somehow, taking just one day out of the year to pledge your love and devotion to your mate after treating them like the neighbor’s noisy cat all year is a bit like donating money to the local volunteer fire company because your house is on fire.

As for Veterans Day, when you have kids a half a world away putting their lives on the line every waking hour, perhaps one day’s remembrance isn’t quite sufficient. And it’s certainly no reason to go without mail.

Flag Day I never could understand. It falls on June 14, the day back in 1778 the country’s flag was adopted by the Second Continental Congress. But the flag and what it represents, I believe, are covered in other bigger and better holidays, like the Fourth of July and Memorial Day. Once again, it only serves to inconvenience the general public by closing township buildings, suspending all local public services and denying mail delivery.

Next up is Groundhog Day, a great movie, but little else. Granted, this day is way down on the bogus holiday list, possibly even dropping below the old favorite, Arbor Day, in overall importance. But to its credit, Groundhog Day does not come with a perfunctory ban on mail delivery.

Also, Punxsutawney Phil is a better forecaster of the weather than most of those brain-dead, but fully breasted, weather people now bouncing across the local TV dials. But be that as it may, it’s about time to retire the rodent and hand February 2nd over to a more deserving celebration.

As for Columbus Day, it’s blatantly bogus to honor some schmuck whose only purpose in coming to this land was to find gold and who was responsible for the torture and mutilation of the many natives he and his fellow discoverers came across after anchoring on what are now American shores.

Although come to think of it, old Chris would probably fit in perfectly with the current American mindset – get rich and hack up anyone that gets in the way.

As for me, I’ll continue to honor those days for which I get paid days off from work, and try to ignore those that mean less than nothing.

And I’ll try my damndest not to ruin anyone’s St. Patrick’s Day weekend.

 

Saturday, February 8, 2014

The New Model Trucks


There was a time when pick-up trucks were tied to the old, rural American work ethic.

You’d see the battered and dilapidated Ford with a couple of taillights busted, the side view mirror long gone and the rear end of the truck about a foot off the ground, and you just knew some old, calloused crap-kicker was going to emerge from the front seat, Camel sticking out of the side of his mouth and wearing enough dirt, paint and general crud on his overalls to scrape off and use to erect a new office building.

It didn’t take Jeremiah Johnson to figure out this guy was all about busting his balls, getting the job done - no matter how many hours it took - and downing a hard-earned shot and a beer at work day’s end.

But, naturally, in today’s world, where hard work is what some other poor schlub has to do and long hours means punishing the keys on that iPhone while doing pilates at the gym, that same critter no longer inhabits pick-up trucks.

Today’s pick-up owner is, generally, a white guy between the ages of 18 and 30 whose only contact with the bed of his truck is tossing a case of beer or 12 on it so he can get wasted this weekend.

Using his truck to work or even haul something across town is an idea that rarely, if ever, enters his head.

He will, however, fly through the streets like a bat out of hell, take up two parking places whenever possible and generally behave like an unwiped ass when behind the wheel.

It’s the old bigger is better mentality. My mode of transport is larger than yours, I have the right of way. You have my exhaust fumes to inhale.

Call him the Suburban Cowboy, and his mount has four tires and an NRA bumper sticker.

Now, since there are no absolutes, I’m not about to throw a blanket over the entire pick-up truck-drivin’ community and call them all a bunch of non-perspiring dickheads.

There are still many of those dilapidated models of truck out on the roads, and there are plenty of hard-workin’ cusses in ‘em. Their numbers, unfortunately, pale in comparison to the new, slick, Armani-wearin’ nitwits who work no harder than the average millionaire’s child and haul nothing bigger than their own massive ego.

The only thing I can figure is that these lunkheads need to look, feel and seem important to the world at large. And tooling through town in the latest model pick-up is one more way to announce how big, cool and important they actually deem themselves to be.

All that’s left for these testosterone-fueled, Marlboro-man wanna-bes is to start wearing Stetsons.

That would just be too much to stomach – the soft-handed, no-hauling, Mr. Look-At-Me doing a JR Ewing imitation, complete with a bottle of beer in his hand and a softball-player tan, seeking out the latest thing in big breasts.

It’s a far cry from the shot-and-a-beer lineage that used to be part and parcel of the truck-drivin’ crowd.

But then pick-up trucks didn’t get treated like Jaguar XKEs back then either.

Back then, they were a working vehicle and a place for a working man’s tools.

Now the only tools in them are the ones behind the wheel.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saturday, November 23, 2013

The Human Way - Feed it, Film it, Kill it


The utter asininity of man never ceases to amaze me, or surprise me.

Now, considering there’s no law against being a complete idiot, the majority of the time man displays his inevitable buffoonery, it’s laughable, something to chat about around the ol’ water cooler at work.

But when it winds up leading to the death of another living thing, it ain’t so funny no more.

Take the case of the innocent elk that was just snuffed in Asheville, N.C.

Now, this elk, who we’ll call Ed, was a regular in Great Smokey Mountain National Park. And much like another regular we remember hanging out in a national park, Yogi Bear, wasn’t shy about chasing down some munchies every now and again.

As anyone who has ever traipsed through a zoo will tell you, however, the feeding of the animals by human visitors is a practice that’s frowned upon (unless you stick a couple of quarters into the nearby gumball machine and extract some pretty disgusting-looking grub, which presumably is OK for animal consumption even if it does look like rat crap). I’m sure this park had posted the proper signs warning of the dangers of stuffing a bacon and lettuce with mayo on toast into the jaws of a nearby badger. But in typical human-being fashion, I’m positive such signs were completely ignored.

After all, Mr. and Mrs. Ima Fatass from Cowpie, Utah know better about what’s consumable for the four-legged and furry than vets, animal experts and learned folks that study that sort of thing for a living. Besides, they paid good money for their vacation and nobody, most of all some bozo who looks like Ranger Smith in Jellystone Park, is going to tell them who they can and cannot feed.

So Ed was fed, fed and then fed some more, to a point where Ed was ignoring his own animal instincts that should have told him that hanging out with the likes of Mr. and Mrs. Fatass was more dangerous than accepting party favors from Amanda Bynes.

It got to a point where Ed would simply approach anything on two legs, looking for a culinary handout.

This brings us to another sweetheart of a human being, Mr. iPhone. Now Mr. iPhone thinks that anything and everything should be the subject of a picture, which he is only too happy to take, and then post on whatever website he can find.

After all, as Mr.iPhone would be the first to tell you, he is so talented and important that anything he finds amusing should be loved and adored by all humans everywhere.

It just so happened that our boy Ed was in full begging mode, playfully nudging some guy on the side of the road in the park.

“Oh, how cute,” said Mr. iPhone, who proceeded to film this blessed event and rapidly post it on Videosofanything.com.

Sure enough, the video goes viral and soon websurfers around the globe are watching en masse and creaming their jeans over the guy on the side of the road being nuzzled by a clone of Bullwinkle J. Moose.

It didn’t take long for the Great Smokey Mountain National Park hierarchy to become aware that one of its own – our boy Ed – had become an internet superstar, of sorts.

Now, the park hierarchy, one would think, should be looking after the well being of all of its critters, particularly the four-legged and furry, who might have a hard time thinking and reacting like anything but what they are.

After witnessing the video, the park hierarchy determined that Ed or any other food-crazed mammal running amok was a recipe for potential disaster (in other words, animal bites that lead to lawsuits that lead to some bureaucrat in the hip pocket of a local politician coming to the conclusion that the national park land was better suited to being the site of a new Best Buy-anchored strip mall, or better yet, a location to drill for oil).

This was the moment when the park folks should have swooped in, reprimanding all those who illegally stuff food into the jaws of those that don’t know any better and pledging to do whatever necessary to prevent these transgressions against nature to occur in the future.

Instead, and to the surprise of no one, they reacted like human beings. And rarely does anything good come from that reaction.

Did the park decide to move Ed 20 miles or so from where he was bumming dinner? Did the park decide to relocate Ed to a different wooded park? How about donating Ed to a nearby petting zoo?

Nope, the brainchildren of the park decided to do the human thing – they killed Ed.

Ed, that internet hero and innocent furry friend to park goers of North Carolina, was euthanized.

It’s the human reaction to most sticky situations, and a slam dunk to any situations involving a non-human – convince the public there is a potential danger (even if there’s no evidence to back it up) and then remove another soul from the planet.

So our star Ed found out what most stars soon learn – revered today, dead tomorrow.

Unfortunately for a soul that didn’t have a say in the matter, the lesson was literal.

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

I'm the King of the World (Apologies, Leo)


The last thing anybody should want in this world is for me to run it.

Fortunately for Planet Earth, I have no aspirations to be declared the King of the World.

I’m much too lazy and apathetic to care that much. I’d rather be like the rest of humanity and stand back and rail at all of the chuckleheads who pass through my daily life.

But if I did somehow manage to ascend to the throne , it wouldn’t be a terrible idea for all women and children to sprint off the field with alacrity.

My reign would be about righting the hundreds of thousands of wrongs I’ve seen in my first go-round on this spinning rock. In other words, I’d serve a plate of revenge with my royal meal, thank you very much.

I wouldn’t play favorites. I wouldn’t simply call for a plague to be brought down on all republicans or all greedmeisters or all enemies of the environment. I’d choose those scum, regardless of race, creed or political affiliation, that have taken all that’s good about the world and completely flushed it in the name of money, or perverted amusement or just because they could, and they’d get a little of my considerable wrath.  Damn the judicial system.

And, if I can do it with a sense of humor, so much the better.

Hey, I’m the king, after all.

I’d start with those assholes that take advantage of the innocent.

Target Number One: Michael Vick and those like him who find nothing wrong with committing  genocide of an entire species just to make a little money and get a few laughs -  and then hide behind the alibi that something like dog fighting is a common sight for a young man growing up in the south, so that justifies the actions. Hey, I grew up in the northeast where the rites of winter included firing iceballs at passing motor vehicles. I guess that should allow me to go all Mr. Freeze on somebody’s ass and dump the equivalent of a small glacier on a truck or two every January.

I would like to think a certain amount of wisdom comes along with growing up, and I can’t think of anything dumber or more unfeeling than forcing living creatures to fight each other to the death.

I’m also not a believer in the old, “He served his time for the crime he committed, and now everything is hunky dory.” Nyet, there are some debts that are impossible to repay.

For Mr. Vick, there would have been no jail time served. As soon as he was convicted of his dog fighting atrocities he would have been stripped naked, smeared with raw meat and tossed, unceremoniously, into a pit of rabid dogs.

Sayonara, Mike, now you can get a front-row seat to watch some vicious canines do what you feel they do best.

As you might have guessed, I’m a proponent of making the punishment fit the crime. I’d kinda like the douche bags in question to get a taste of the heinous acts they’ve just committed before their lights go out permanently.

Next on the hit parade would be those greedy dirtballs responsible for obliterating the rainforest. Now, I’m not going to punish the poor sluggos that do the actual cutting. They are, after all, just doing their jobs.  And while they could, conceivably, grow a pair and refuse to begin the whacking process on principle, I’m not about to set a guy’s balls on fire for attempting to feed his family.

I would, however, have no qualms whatsoever about finding the suits responsible for scything down thousands of square miles of forestry and forever damaging the environment by taking a chainsaw to their genitals.

I guess we would both be accused of chopping wood.

And last but not least, my first round of revenge would be completed at the expense of those companies responsible for oil spills. Yep, I mean you, the cesspools who run British Petroleum.  Not only were you malodorous slime responsible for the biggest release of oil into marine waters in the history of the industry via the 2010 Deepwater Horizon spill, a disaster that resulted in the company being found guilty of double-figure counts of felony manslaughter and a count or two of lying to Congress, but you doubled your pleasure by giving the act a positive PR twist by producing TV ads espousing how wonderful you were for aiding in the cleanup.

I, for one, really think it was a stand-up act on your part for helping to clean up what you ruined. I’m sure the dead, oil-riddled marine life now sucking rust off of Davy Jones Locker appreciates what a great, responsible company you have.

Imagine, cleaning up what you spilled, what a unique concept. That’s almost as noble as digging graves for the bodies you just sliced up. Way to go, guys.

I know this peachy and sunshiny act should earn you callous greedheads at least a spot in the waiting line at the Environmentally Responsible Hall of Fame. But for now, as king of the world I sentence all those responsible to a long walk off a short pier, and into a vat of oil-drenched water, set on fire for this special occasion.

When taking into consideration their impact on the world around us, I think they’re getting off easy.

And if I were the King of the World, I’d just be getting started.