People have no fucking honor anymore.

Out of the now five wrecks that my car (see almost every other post on this forsaken blog) has been involved in, I have been present (by which I mean actually in my car) for only two, neither of which were my fault. The only one that could possibly be construed as my fault was the time I was hit by a future co-worker, as I might have cut her off. But, we all know what the law says when it comes to a rear-ending. Besides, she told me later that she was looking at a Bennigan's across the road to see if any of her friends were there. Nonetheless, she never accepted any blame for the accident.

Three months after I purchased my car, I walked out on New Year's Day to find a nice dent in the hood of my car, apropos of nothing. Yes, I had been out drinking the night before, but I know, without fail, that I never hit anything. But- no note, no nothing. Just a nice dent and chipped paint that would've cost over $2,000 to repair as two seperate panels would need to be replaced. So, over the last three years, the dent has gone unrepaired, and a nice bit of rust has formed where there was once a nice coat of paint. Fine.

And then today happened. Leaving the grocery store after buying cat and dog food, cat litter and hot dog buns (that's how I shop), what do I see, but a huge fucking dent over the back wheel well of the driver's side of my car (incidentally, the same side as the other hit-and-run awesomeness). Sure, parking lot accidents happen all the time. I marvelled at the fact that I had not even been in the store for more than five minutes, literally. Then I had a clearly moronic thought: 'I'll walk to the front of my car and check the windshield. Surely whoever did this knew what they'd done and left me a note with their insurance information or something.' Boy, am I an idiot.

This was the point that I realized that the car that was parked next to me was the same car that I pulled in next to. How could this have happened? Then I realized that this heinous act of negligence and purposeful denial was most likely perpetrated by the painters and carpenters who have been repairing the house next door over the past month. All have white trucks, and, oh yeah, did I mention the nice streak of white paint on the dent?

It doesn't matter. I'm sure, though I'm exhausting all avenues, that I'll never find out who did this. The damage does not affect the way the car drives, and I assume that even if I were compensated monetarily for the damage inflicted on my car I wouldn't use it to repair the dent. I'd likely put it towards some other matter more pressing.

But that's not the fucking point.

Cowards! The whole lot of us, goddamn cowards. Everyone is so fearful of losing one more dollar or being unnecessarily sued in this horrendously litigious society of ours that common decency, basic human courtesy, has flown right out the window that some asshole left open, even after being told repeatedly not to.

Hey, if I smashed into someone's car, I would be tempted to just drive off as well. Especially during the times that I haven't had insurance. But I wouldn't. I'd leave a note with my number on it or a funny cartoon or something. Something. Anything. I can say this because I know, categorically, that this will likely not ever happen to me because I am an attentive and responsible driver.

Why not be a stand-up dude (or broad) and own up to your mistakes? I don't want your money, but an apology would be nice. Ever consider that?

This post sucks. I know it. I don't care. Ranting on the internet is stupid, but I didn't go to the bar tonight, and so therefore I had no casual acquaintance to unload the full extent of my social commentary onto. All I want is for people to cease to be so frightened of their money and start fearing what it is that really needs fearing: ME, when, as a big pussy, you speed away when you make a mistake.

You fucking pukes. You know who you are.

This one's for John.

A = 2nd (1-23)
A = 3rd (24-46)

First Place wins a prize.

_________________


Forsooth and truly, it is fine to admonish the weak- they bask in their own glory; they mate without "achtung," to borrow a word, and feeling is nothing more than attachment to phony, peasantine ideals. Our crass, yet passive and unemotional acceptance of this ignominy comes as no surprise, given the state of the system we currently find ourselves in. Should one ask oneself the all-important question (hah! Quite unlikely, we may only asssume...), failing, after all, our Byzantine predecessors who, at the time, though proficient in Middle aged bedding, drew, nonetheless, very inaccurate conclusions about human interaction, still were able to accept the one thought we've assuaged ourselves from for so long: Will absenteeism absolve Every Day Man from the beauty- the blasphemy- of care and loyalty? Verily, he must begin anew.

Can the media really report this with confidence?

Philippine landslide village buries bodies and hope.
Sun Feb 19, 2006 9:19 PM ET


Just wondering. Seems like it'd be hard to prove that last bit. I could be wrong. Unless 'hope' is the name of one of the bodies- y'know, a special body that doesn't get lumped in with all the rest of the 'bodies.' Like, maybe the mayor or something. Or whatever you call the person that resides over a couple hundred thatch huts.

Invocation.

According to my many satisfied customers, the following invocation of The Muse has been known to aid in decreasing blockage, whether it be of the writerly, colonic, colonical, or paved roadway type. Feel free to use it at your leisure. My humblest wish is that it aids you in all of your various endeavors, whatever they may be. And that you'll send me fabulous wads of cash for my work.

Invocation of The Muse.
O, gentle, gentle Muse of One Thousand Graces, bestow upon me Your Greatest Treasure, a Gift akin only to the Likeness of Your Most Precious Countenance- a Gift that, upon receipt, sends Grateful Tears streaking down one's dirty, pock-marked Face, forming Tributaries and Eddies of Salted Water on one's Cheeks and Chins, much like the Rise of the Euphrates and the Rhone after the Onslaught of Highly Prayed Rain Recarves the Parched Countryside, as Cool and Refreshing as a Soothing Mint Libation in the Deadliest of Summer Heat, A Heat Most Hot!, a Heat Hotter than Vesuvius' Lava itself, and Replenishes the Scorched Land, more Scorched than an Eight-Score Desert Traveler, with dense and luscious Vegetation such as to provide Sustenance to its' People for the Entire Season; Such are one's tears upon Receipt of Your Magnificent Gift. I mustneeds beseech Your illuminous Gift, that I may be most Graciously Blessed to regale but a Fraction of That which I shall undoubtedly experience in My Sojourn into the Great Unknown, The Dentist's Office, The Voting Booth, The Backseat Of His Car, The Spidery Garage, The Library where All the Homeless Hang Out, The Rapey Junkyard to replace a Wheel Cover that Costs maybe $5 more at Auto Zone, The Sears to Replace a Broken Vanity Mirror that Shattered when Inflamed Passion towards My Seethingly Curious and Annoying Cat directed my Hand to Loose Itself of the Nearly Empty Can of Spirits in the Vicinity of My Feline's nosey Paws, or The Spidery Backseat of That Homeless Man's Junked Out Van. This I beseech You, O Muse.

Modern Satire!

If you will..

...Imagine a broke-ass Alice Cooper meeting a newly rich Kip Winger. Close your eyes. Got it?

Enter:

















Yeah, I thought this. So what?! Like all living, breathing things, I am a sexual creature! I am also an artist, and making comparisons between things is something that comes naturally to me! And no, imagining the flagpole as a dick is not a common occurrence for me, but sometimes things pop up! Fuck you!






Like I care what you people think anyway.. My half-brother, Richard Marx (yeah, remember him, assholes? 'Endless Summer Nights' is the only reason half of you got laid after prom!) said my video is awesome. So, go ahead and criticize me, you bunch of terrorists. Fucking jerks.


Now, click here and watch my video. Um... please.

Three Cases.

I hesitate to write this, seeing as the last thing I wrote related to my car was soundly defeated by a pop-tart, but considering I spend probably eighty per cent of my time in said car, it stands to reason that many of my experiences-turned-hilarious-anecdotes would stem from my decadent participation in our fossil fuel driven economy. If you are bored or unentertained by my usage of my vehicle as a delivery system for poor jokes, bad stereotypes or split infinitives, I suggest you click off the offending page now, head over to the nearest reference library, discover who coined and popularized the term "Write what you know," and spend the rest of your days searching for his or her tombstone so as to litter it with graffiti and flown middle fingers. And piss, too. That'd be good. Don't bother sending me emails or comments housing your complaints. My solipsistic leanings have instructed me to simply not care.

1. The Case of The Forgotten Accident.
A few months ago, I was driving to Guitar Center with my friend Steve, when, upon changing lanes perhaps too hastily on a very busy street, we found ourselves rear-ended. While we were driving about 30 mph, the offender couldn't have been going more than 40-45 mph. So, it was a minor accident. Not to see Steve's reaction, though. He jumped as violently as I imagine he would if I intentionally ran down two pairs of beauty pageant triplets. Maybe his reaction was not so out of place. Maybe mine was. You see, this marked the third time I had been rear-ended in this car. Once, my girlfriend hit it in my driveway (I admit that I was not in my car when this happened. I was in hers.). Then, a stoned teenage gangster hit me at a light, whereupon he threatened to "beat my ass" when I told his annoying, yelly sister to "shut the fuck up." And so now, this. No big deal. I told Steve to stop freaking out and pulled over into a Michelin Tire. Steve cited previous back problems as the reasoning behind his outlandish reaction, and so the subject was dropped.

I surveyed the damage and asked the young woman who hit me if she was alright. But, probably in the reverse order. She was fine, and her car had little to no damage. My rear fender, already scratched, was a bit more scuffed now, and part of the right side had popped out a little- something I could easily fix had I the wherewithal to do such things. I don't, and so it hasn't been yet. Of course, the police were not called. I gathered the girl's insurance information and told her I'd call her if I decided to report it. I had already decided, however- not having insurance myself at the time, I felt it would be unfair to tarnish her driving record and hike up her insurance rates for such a petty accident, and, had the situation been reversed (even though that would never happen, since I am an impeccable driver), I would hope she would do the same. Especially since she wouldn't have had a choice.. *ahem* We went our separate ways, an inconsequential bumping on an inconsequential day.

And that, as they say, was that.

A few days ago, one of the girls who I have worked with at the pizza hole for nearly four months now was relating past experiences of waiting on people at Denny's to me. I said, "Oh, maybe that's where I know you from, 'cause I swear you look familiar to me." That's when she said, "No, you wanna know where you know me from? I can tell you exactly. Remember that time you got rear-ended?"

"That was you?! Why haven't you said anything about that this whole time?"

"I dunno," she said.

Well, that shut me up.

2. The Case of The Nearly-Decade-Old-Lame-Thing-To-Do-To-Someone-If-You-Are-A-Fucking-Asshole.
Not much explanation is needed for this. But, let me paint the scene: Driving home from the dog park last week with my sweet hound, Story (she's not really a hound), windows down, radio up, tongues slapping various things as we roamed the freeway at 70mph (hers, the outside paint on the side of my car, mine, a soda, or possibly a cigarette, though I try to keep them as dry as possible when I use them), a warm southerly breeze drifting in and out of the car like so many ghosts, I took solace in knowing that I had just made my dog's day, even though nefarious, self-righteous pricks had unsuccessfully attempted to humiliate both her and I while at the dog park (explanation of this statement will be appearing here posthaste..) and that I would not be participating in waged slavery for at least 54 more minutes. I began exiting the freeway, as I am wont to do when the proper occasion presents itself. Then this happened.






Look! You can see my house from here!

That's right. Paintballs. Drive-by paintballing. Wow. Didn't that shit go out in like 1998?

3.The Case of the Forbidden Boob.
While I wasn't in my car during the following story, it is sure that had I not owned a car, I certainly wouldn't have found myself in Como, one of the supposed ghettos of Ft. Worth (frankly, it's a lot nicer than some of the neighborhoods I've lived in), standing inside the house of a freshly showered woman who was blasting gospel music. Wearing nothing but a loose-fitting robe, the woman bent over to sign a credit card slip, and pop!, out comes a breast. While making a small attempt to pull her robe over the exposed no-no, it is clear that she was either a) clearly comfortable with her body and did not mind exposing it to bearded strangers or, b) hoping I would look at it, because the small movement of fabric did nothing to cover the escaped pouch of flesh. So, I looked at it, that's all. Not sexually or anything- just a look. A curious extended glance, a perhaps shared understanding between the two of us, nothing more. What was I supposed to do?! Then she gave me a very generous $5 tip. And a handjob.