HNT ICO: OsBasso

OsBasso's Half-Nekkid Thursday, or HNT, is all the rage. I'm nothing if not a follower, so here's my entry.

Ode to My Own Hand:

My right hand -- the agent of my foul deeds, the transcriber of my blog posts, the instrument of several strangulation murders, and occasionally, my girlfriend.


Six feet deep

You have to admit cremation is a cool way to dispose of a dead body.

I want to know who first conceived of cremation -- and whether others took him seriously.

"My dear family, Grandma passed last night. We have to decide where to bury her. And the hole has to be six feet deep. You boys will have to help me."

"Ah, gee whiz, Dad. Can't we just light her on fire or something?"

I'm sure that kid got his ass kicked that day. But sometime later it dawned on the rest of the family that setting the old bag of bones on fire was much easier than digging a 6-foot hole. Lo and behold, the ritual of cremation was born.

I also wonder where the word "cremation" comes from. It sounds like a dessert at Dairy Queen.

There's no cream involved in cremation. Just a fire, a corpse and ash. They should call it "ashation."


A kid by any other name

Why do parents deliberately jack up the spelling of their kids' names?

I think it's because the parents want to be creative, but lack the brainpower to dream up an original name. So they settle for "Charidy," "Sandie," "Karyn," or "Jayson." This isn't creativity. It's Hooked on Phonix gone amuck.

I guess we don't have enough passwords and PIN numbers to memorize already? Now we've got to memorize every phonetic permutation of every name in the world? Spell the name correctly, people. Those of you who damn convention might remember that unconventional is the new convention. So be a rebel and do the right thing. If you must misspell something, may I suggest a classic like "they're, their, or there." People fuck those up all the time and nobody gets hurt.

I'll tell you from where this practice evolved: MTV. MTV and their "be an individual" bullshit. That's great for the Top 40 music "artists" popular at any given time. If you're raising a future rap star, by all means, name him after a denomination of currency or a character from the Peanuts comic series. And use a "Z" to idicate the sound of an "S." The kidz dig on dat chit, playaz. But for the rest of us, a uniquely spelled name doesn't do jack squat -- pardon me -- Jaque Skwat!

Parents, I know you fantasize about this special, individual little creature you've created, and that you want his name to commensurate with his uniqueness. But when he grows up to be nighttime shift manager at Burger King, he'll be just another cog in the machinery. So why not give him a correctly spelled name for his BK name badge?


Six Great Ideas that Alfred Adler didn't conceive

  • The more people I get to know, the more I realize we’re all committing the same immoral acts. We can’t help it. The only real difference among us is how well we conceal our flaws. Therefore, rather than spending our energy striving for moral perfection, we could better spend it covering our tracks.
  • Do you remember that report years ago that proved police officers were developing testicular cancer from their radar guns? That had me wondering. Don’t they realize they’re supposed to aim the gun at the cars? What were these officers doing? Clocking how fast they could get an erection by thinking about doughnuts?
  • Sex is to marriage what a paycheck is to a job. It’s not the only thing to consider, but if they ever stop giving it to you, you’re going to stop showing up.
  • Always vote for the candidate who posts the least signs along the roadway. Why? Because he’s the least ambitious and the least likely to try brainwashing you. I long for a government chock full of honest and lazy people.
  • Junk food is the real health food. Who eats the most junk food? Kids. They’re the healthiest of all! How many kids do you hear complaining about joint pain and watery stools?
  • Have you seen that bumper sticker, “Kill your television?” That’s too extreme. Let’s compromise. How about we kill Music Television? And maybe we can pay a visit to that guy who makes the Oxy-Clean commercials.



Not that I'd ever do it, but if you kick a girl in the crotch, are you pussyfooting?


Have a good weekend, my dear readers.


Lord of the Fries

We've gone crazy with the fad of frying foods.

We should reserve frying for those foods that taste bad in the first place, because those foods need help. Of course you should fry ochra and zucchini. Potatoes and rice, too. In fact, most vegetables could use a good fry. How else can we eat the stuff? Give them a bath in oil, batter them, fry them up, then eat them like candy. Frying is God's way of making vegetables edible. Plus, the nutrients in the vegetables nullify the hit your heart takes from the oil. Few people know that. That's why a fried vegetable is a "balanced" meal: it's bad for you and it's good for you.

But we've become too cute with fried foods. We didn't stay humble. Now we're frying foods that have no business -- no need -- being fried: Twinkies, Snickers Bars, Ho-Ho's and Oreos, for example.

You don't need to fry a Twinkie. It's perfect right out of the box. It already tastes great. Don't fix it if it ain't broken. It's not just a cliché. It's a recipe.

I’ll bet some country bumpkin started frying Hostess products in his barn after consuming rye whiskey and “becoming familiar” with several barnyard animals. Unfortunately, the pagan ritual caught on.

"Hell, if fryin' can mak’n ochra taste gooooood, jus’ think what it'll do to a Ho-Ho. Gonna be some mmmm-gooooooood eatin‘."

Now you can get fried ice cream. Fried ice cream -- that's an oxymoron. Do you realize some mad scientist actually devised a way to fry something that's supposed to be cold. This is the same mentality that leads to human cloning, cop-show musicals, the Thighmaster and the Pet Rock. This kind of arrogance and lust for tastiness will result in cataclysmic disaster. Someday, somebody will immerse a Bon Bon in a deep-fryer and see the Wrath of God -- like those Nazis did in Raiders of the Lost Arc.

Blog Recipe

I thought I'd share my favorite Blog Recipe:

  • 3 parts sarcasm
  • 2 parts irreverence
  • A dash of sexual innuendo
  • Several bunches of political commentary
  • 4 ounces of your favorite liquor (let simmer inside author)
  • A dozen entries from your old high school creative writing notebook
  • 8 or 9 large anecdotes about your crappy day at work and your jerkoff of a boss
  • A shoutout to your blogger buddies
  • Photos of your pets looking their cutest
  • An open letter to an ex who fucked you over
  • A pinch of potty humor (use “cunt” sparingly for best effect)
  • An essay on why Mac is better than PC -- or vice versa
  • A vignette on a childhood trauma that made you a stronger person

Mix above ingredients together in a blog template. Season with song lyrics to taste and garnish with a personal photo showcasing your cleavage. Enjoy!


Anonymous Liaisons

Regrettably, my last post contained political commentary that offended a liberal reader. My condolences to Mr. Anonymous. What an unusual last name. Is it Greek?

Anyway, I'd like to redeem myself by raising awareness of global warming.

It's everybody's responsibility to eliminate the causes of global warming. Our planet depends on it. We need to act now, even if it requires sacrifice.

And we all know what the single biggest cause of global warming is: San Francisco Bath Houses. I'll bet you didn't know gay bath house saunas account for 87% of greenhouse gases. It's true. Furthermore, feltch bubbles are detrimental to the ozone layer.

Those queens need to turn down the thermostats and fornicate at room temperature.


A pinch of wisdom, a punch of rubbish

  • I just used diet soda to clear the taffy off of my teeth. My hygienist would be proud.
  • Here’s all you need to know about politics: Conservatives derive their power from the creation of enemies. Liberals derive their power from the creation of victims.
  • Do you remember “teachers’ aides” in school -- the kids who got class credit for taking attendance, collecting homework and grading tests? In eight grade, our math teacher had a teacher’s aide. His name was Doug, and he was fat. We called him “Rolaids.” I thought that was hilarious. In fact, I still do.
  • Here’s a remedy for road rage. The next time you’re stuck behind somebody who insists on driving 32 miles per hour, imagine he’s going someplace really unpleasant, like root canal procedure from a dentist with Parkinson’s, or testicular mass surgery. Or how about an IRS audit? Then, when you’re good an pissed off, you can understand why he’s driving slowly, and you can relish in his misery.
  • Here’s the difference between a smart person and a stubborn person: A smart person knows he has the right-of-way in a crosswalk, yet waits for traffic to pass before crossing. A stubborn person knows he has the right-of-way in a crosswalk and he’ll spend a month in the intensive care unit to prove it.
  • There’s no such thing as a good day at work or a bad orgasm. Consequently, I call in sick and jerk off a lot.
  • I’ve had the same refrigerator for 12 years. During that time, I’ve had to buy 5 computers. And just like the fridge, they all freeze-up. I wish Westinghouse would start making computers.
  • Only three things taste good: fat, sugar and salt. If a food tastes good, it’s got at least one of these ingredients in unhealthful proportions. This is one of the ways God makes Himself laugh. Another gag He plays is making us sexually attracted to body parts used for excreting waste. Good one, my Lord!
  • Speaking of God, it’s a good thing He didn’t work with a committee. We’d still be waiting for light.


My contribution to Half-Naked Thursday.

Legendary blogger OsBasso has conceived Half-Nekkid Thursday, or HNT. HNT is catching fire and becoming all the rage.

I predict this idea will skyrocked OsBasso to superstardom and, frankly, I want a piece of it. I've been holding out, but I can't resist any longer. Here's a butt shot of me:


Enjoy it in good health.

The Presidential Staff

Most people describe Bill Clinton as a ladies’ man. I think this is a misnomer.

He was the President. Of course he could score. I should hope the most powerful man on the planet could run reconnaissance on some whisker biscuit. Hell, the Elephant Man could score if you put him in the Oval Office (although he'd have to do it standing up, or else he'd freggin die).

What's the big deal? Some jobs just get you laid. Bartenders, bouncers, roadies, musicians, life guards, drivers-ed teachers -- certain jobs attract the ladies.

Clinton is a cross between JFK and the Pillsbury Dough Boy, mostly the latter. I mean, his idea of romance is eating a pizza and busting a load on a girl’s dress while his pants hang around his ankles. It’s a cinch he’s no Don Juan.

Still not convinced? Who was he sexing before he became President? Hillary Clinton. She's a real catch. The biggest sacrifice Bill ever made for the country was keeping her sexually satisfied. I wouldn't copulate with Hillary using Janet Reno's dick. Hillary, somewhere there's a German power lifter looking for his calves.

Bill Clinton is no ladies’ man. He’s just a regular guy who -- like all of us -- used whatever power and position he had to have sex with as many average-looking women as he could.


Rock me Nostradamus

I don’t admire Nostradamus the way supernatural sycophants do. Nor do I put much stock into Nostradamus’ predictions. Some people swear he’s genuine, 100%, grade-A prognosticator. These are the same people who read a couple of Anne Rice novels and believe vampires really exist -- in Europe and New Orleans. I think I saw one working at a Kinko’s downtown the other night. Anyway, Nostradamus was nothing more than John Edwards in drag. Historians have reached and stretched his writings to retrofit his “predictions” to future events. I’m not impressed. What’s Nostradamus’ most celebrated prediction? Adolf Hitler. If you read his work, you discover the prophet Nostradamus prognosticated “Hister,“ a brutal tyrant who would ravage Europe. Naturally, historians point to Adolf Hitler as the object of Nostradamus’ work. Proof positive.

Boy, Nostradamus really went out on a limb with that one! Did he mean to say that sometime in the future, a short, ugly, evil, egotistical jerkoff would usurp political power and rule with an iron fist, killing and starving millions of innocent people along the way? I just want to be sure. Because that’s never happened before! I hear John Edwards, self-described psychic, recently told an emotionally challenged woman that her father, whom she never really knew, wants to make amends from the beyond! Who would have guessed?

Please don’t think I’m skeptical of ESP, psychic powers, the sixth-sense, or whatever some eccentric douche bag who hasn’t won the lottery yet, is selling. I’m as open-minded as the next guy. I merely ask that a handful of psychic predictions be useful. Why didn’t Nostradamus encourage me to buy Microsoft stock in the 1990s? Why didn’t he warn me that the hot Asian girl at Kokomo’s had the clap? Hell, I’d have been grateful if he warned me not to buy a Kia. How hard is it to make a power-window that doesn’t derail, anyway?

I’ve never told anybody this before, but I dabble in psychic predictions myself. I’ve gotten pretty good over the years. For instance, I predicted Bo Bice wouldn’t win American Idol. I kept having dreams where he’d shower at my place and clog my drains with his mane of hair. My therapist wanted me to get in touch with my gayness. But he’s not psychic. Only I am qualified to interpret my prognostications.

Anyway, now that I have a blog, I figure I should publish my predictions for posterity. Someday they’ll make me famous, and you can all say you knew me. In the meantime, please feel free to profit from my psychic predictions to whatever extent you imagination allows.

  • Hawkish Pentagon officials clamor for more of federal pie to go to defense. Doves in Congress agree as long as military actions are humanitarian efforts having no discernable American interest.
  • If you smoke, drive an SUV, go to church, eat meat, own property, spank your kids, eat fast food, or display an American flag by your doorstep -- there will be a new group who hates you and is currently appealing to the ACLU to sue or prosecute you out of existence. They’re just looking out for your rights.
  • A few more nations will decide they hate the United States.
  • Crude oil prices will climb, OPEC will claim its hands are tied. The government will raise taxes on fuel. American consumer will take it in the shorts.
  • Stock prices will stagnate; average business executive salaries and bonus packages will surge 55%.
  • A government program fails to deliver on promises. Washington insists it needs more funding. Republicans and Democrats will clash on how much more.
  • Israeli-Palestine talks will result in peace. No, I’m just kidding. They still hate each other.
  • Shortening and jawbreakers will be the new health foods.
  • B-list bimbo will “accidentally” lose pornographic recording of her sexing some has-been low-life. The performance will be uploaded to the Internet. B-list bimbo will become A-list bimbo.
  • School grades prove that kids keep getting dumber and more violent, but they’re even better at using computers than they are today.
  • An evil genius will take over the world by installing hypnotic marching orders into I-pod circuitry.
  • A revolutionary new diet fad will grip America and everybody will get 10 pounds fatter [What Would Jesus Eat? A little pussy, if the mood struck him right.].
  • There will be a bunch more crappy-sitcoms and yet another CSI crime drama series.
  • Millions of women will develop dark-purple smudges on their lower backs where tattoos used to be. Men will have a similar discolored ring around their upper biceps.


Adjusting the contrast

Justice is when a criminal receives a punishment that fits the crime. Poetic justice is when somebody who wronged you gets a dose of his own medicine.

Hungry is a physiological signal for food and nourishment. Starving is craving Chinese food, pork rinds and nachos.

Attractive is tall, svelte, smart with high cheekbones. Sexy is a decent-looking person in thong underwear or a cool sports car.

An idiot is somebody stupid enough to aggravate you.. A maniac is somebody stupid enough to frighten you.

A website is an Internet domain with a bunch of useless crap. A blog is an Internet domain with a bunch of entertaining crap.

Owning an MP3 player requires an expenditure. Owning an I-pod requires a mortgage.


Take my wife, please.

The following is an honest-to-Goodness true story.

In the early 1990s, I was a broke, struggling young adult attending vocational school. My vocational training occupied most of my week, so I couldn’t work. I lived on a tight budget. I had no extra money, and I lived with mom and dad.

I was taking an algebra class at the local junior college. The college offered a class at the Air Force Base here in Tucson. So I had to drive on base several times a week. On test day, I was running late. I was concerned not only about the test, but whether I’d be allowed to take it, because I was tardy. I raced my car across the base and tore into the parking lot. I was driving like Billy Joel after happy hour. Usually, I’m an extraordinarily cautious driver. But today, all that mattered was getting to class on time.

I zipped into the first space I could find…


I hit another car! Damn. I jammed the brakes. Instinctively, I looked around me. Who saw? How many people would I have to kill? Anybody?

From what I could gather, nobody saw what had happened. In fact, there was nobody in sight. Sweet! I could just disappear -- like that runaway bride with the crazy eyes. But I didn’t. My conscience got the better of me. Still fretting over my algebra test, I wrote my name and number and put it on the car’s windshield. Paying the damages would hurt, especially since I was living on a tight budget, but I had to do the right thing (I’m so glad I’ve finally killed off the idealist in me). Anyway, I collected myself and labored through the algebra test.

When I returned home, I dreaded the phone call. I felt like a first-class jerk. I caused somebody a big headache and myself several hundred dollars. I’m sure the owner was going to be pissed. He might give me an earful of grief, or go Russell Crowe on my ass. [Ring ring. Hello? It’s for you, mother fucker. Catch!].

Sure enough, the owner had attempted to call me. My mom said a man had called, but refused to leave his name and number. He promised to call back later.

Damn. I was hoping he’d blow the thing off. The damage was minimal, after all. Maybe he’d decided it wasn’t worth the trouble.

The phone rang again. I answered it with grief in my heart. I felt like a grade-A jerk off.


“Hello. Is this the Lightning Bug’s Butt?”

“This is he.”

“Look, dude. This afternoon you left your name and number on my wife’s car. I’m calling to let you know she’s not interested. And if you ever contact her again, we’re gonna have trouble. Okay?”

Dipshit alert! This guy thinks I’m hitting on his wife! What a dumbass!

Come to think of it, I didn’t explain myself on the note. I figured the situation was obvious: there’s a new dent in your car and I’m the guy who put it there. Here’s my name and number. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an algebra test to flunk.

He was waiting for my response. My initial instinct was to apologize for the confusion and explain myself. After considering things for a second, I decided to roll with this promising new development. I’d rather be a louse than a lousy driver. And the former might save me several hundred dollars.

“Alright.” Hehe!

“I mean it.”



Ha! I fooled him. And screw him, anyway. Assuming the worst of me, he calls my house and tells me to cease and desist in a macho, threatening tone. No doubt he was some Air Force macho man whose whore wife was banging more enlisted guys than Lyndie England. The trampy wife probably couldn’t wait to show hubby the note some guy left on her windshield because she’s so irresistibly hot (and, as we all now know, dense!). I’ll bet the minute hubby left for the flight line, she cruised the BX for sausage -- the whore. In both their eyes, I was just another Jody hoping it was his turn.

Fine by me.

Anyway, I thought the whole affair (no pun intended) was pretty damn amusing and custom-made for the Blogosphere.


Supersize it. Downsize it.

What we call Progress is nothing more than miniaturization and maximization. Consider that by the 1950's, we invented everything we'd ever need: washers, dryers, motorized kitchen appliances, television, refrigeration, the Hoola-Hoop. Technology automated our lives in the 1950s and we used the free time automation afforded us to start inventing useless crap. Since then, we've conceived a steady stream of pet rocks, trapper keepers, GPS devices...

We've invented so many things that we're running out of things to invent. Instead, we invent ways of making things bigger or smaller. The computer is a great example. They used to take up an entire building. Now we pack the computing power of 100,000 UNIVACs into a Palm Pilot which, as the name implies, fits in the palm of your hand. Of course it doesn't make you a pilot yet. I don't care how many gigs of RAM they pack into a Palm Pilot. It's always going to be an electronic rolodex at best -- a collection of phone numbers and email addresses we spend 5 hours programming into the thing and then never use. I have a Palm Pilot. I remember thinking that I was never going to be disorganized again. I'd have every bit of information I'd ever need just when I needed it. I'd be a completely evolved human being. Instead I've got 94 scraps of paper with phone numbers, frequent flyer miles and salsa recipes busting the seams of my wallet that I one day plan to program into the Palm.

On the other hand, we have to keep making other things bigger and bigger. Cars have grown into SUVs. Happy Meals are now "super-sized." Star Jones is the new Oprah.

Recently we've seen the confluence of these two endeavors in the form of the plasma screen television. Once we strove to make TVs bigger and bigger. But while a bigger picture is always better, nobody wants a Delta Burke-sized box in their living room. So we've kept the big picture, but miniaturized the box from front to back. Now you can hang a 55-inch image "Foodie Call" on your wall, because it's only 4 inches thick. The plasma screen is a great metaphor for today's programming: pretty pictures -- no depth.


More hodgepodge.

  • Those of you who are married, but secretly considering divorce, let me share with you some advice: Chances are you’re romanticizing your single days and reminiscing about the sense of freedom and adventure. But I assure you, if your single days were half of what you remember them to be, you wouldn’t have gotten married in the first place. Face it. Being single sucks. Now go kiss your spouse.
  • My mom tells me I should make more of an effort to stay close to my flesh and blood, even if they’re annoying sometimes. I always tell her that I share 99% of my DNA with chimpanzees, and both the chimps and I are fine living on separate continents.
  • Tranquility: the midpoint between constipation and diarrhea.
  • Why do street people always wear asphalt-colored clothing? I almost hit three of them the other night. Those homeless fellas are hard to make out at night -- especially after a few martinis. I say instead of handing out clean hypodermic needles to homeless people, we start handing out reflectors.
  • I disagree that television is bad for you. All the really dangerous ideas come from books. Who’s a worse influence on your kids -- David Hasselhoff or Noam Chomsky?
  • I can think of no greater proof that God loves man than the watermelon.
  • The rounder the food is, the better it tasts: pizza, hamburgers, doughnuts, truffles, Butterfinger BB’s.
  • Splendra sweetener claims that you can use it "practically anywhere you use sugar." Does that include my ex-girlfriend’s gas tank?
  • I dislike the cliche that goes, "We'll have to agree to disagree." I disagree. We've already agreed to disagree, otherwise we wouldn't disagree in the first place. Don't you agree?
  • At what point in my life did diarrhea become "Irritable Bowel Syndrome?" "Diarrhea" isn't the prettiest word, but it's still better than any arrangement of the words "irritable" and "bowel." And what do bowels have to be irritable about anyway? They can pass all the shit life gives them along for some asshole to deal with! My job should be so easy


If you have THE TIME, read this.

We’re obsessed with time. Everywhere you look, something’s telling you what time it is. You’ve got your watch, of course. Then there’s the clock on your radio. As if that weren’t enough, the D.J. on your radio tells you 8 times every hour exactly what time it is in that smooth, DJ voice:

“You’re listening to the Disco Volcano on 98.3 FM, where it’s currently 3:45 in the AM and I’m being serviced under the console by an intern who thinks I can get her a record deal.”

My PDA has a clock. There’s a clock on my computer screen. Even my MP3 player has the time. Billboards, clock towers, the on-line cable guide, the microwave oven, Morris Day -- they all want to show me the time. It’s no wonder we’re all stressed and rushed. The whole world is reminding us what time it is!

There is one hour of the day when I’m obsessed with the time: my lunch hour. We’re all pretty stingy with time on our lunch hours. Our lunch hour is OUR time. I cherish each and every minute of my lunch hour and God help the poor bastard who cheats me out of a portion. I will hold him to account. That burger flipper who “forgot” to include my fries -- his name is going down in my little notebook. The clerk at the bank who can’t seem to pull my data up from my account number -- it’s coming out of your ass, pal. I’ll exact my revenge as soon as I find the time.

Our lunch hours are precious time. A lot of us blog from work, but I’ll bet none of us does it during his/her lunch hour! Am I right? Let The Man pay me for my blog time! Speaking of The Man, a policeman once pulled me over during my lunch hour and spent MY time writing me a ticket. I considered doing something that would have me locked in prison -- where, ironically, I’d have plenty of time.

I think that’s why we look back on childhood with nostalgia. It was the one time in our lives where time didn’t matter. In a child’s eye, there are only two times: daytime and nighttime. Other than that, time didn’t matter. Kids don’t even wear watches. After all, what difference does it make whether it’s 2:30 PM or 4:15? The itinerary still reads the same: play, play, play, eat something, play, play, sleep.

In adulthood, we measure time in man-hours, work-weeks, product “life-cycles,“ etc. In childhood, a valid increment of time is the time it takes to eat a jawbreaker. The park on the other side of town was two Blow-Pops away by bicycle. Wouldn’t it be nice if that remained the case? If we still measured our time by eating candy? You’d have to stay at work long enough to finish say, 10 jawbreakers. Then you go home. I just hope my job would have a good dental plan.


Don't drive angry. Park angry.

I don’t think you should stop and wait for the car in front of you to pull out of a desirable parking spot. People who do this must think they’re something special.

“Ooh. In a few moments, that parking space will become vacant. Screw the line of poor bastards behind me. I think I’ll stop and turn the Safeway parking lot into a mini-Las Angeles traffic jam rather than park down the aisle and have to walk an extra 70 feet.”

These are the same people who stand at the entrance of the store while they thumb through the sales ad, the same people who squeeze and extra item in the express checkout (I saw that pack of Twinkies, you sly bastard. 8 items or less! 8 items!), the same people who have to be asked twice to put up their tray and return their seat to the upright position during final approach. They’re not special. They’re a living argument for the Taser gun.

Come to think of it, I do want to see these people stop and wait for the good parking spots. Only I’d like them to wait on a railroad track, a drawbridge, or a California sink hole. By all means, take your time. Don’t rush on my account.

Perusing a busy parking lot should be a matter of luck: you drive around and hope the gods open a spot as you’re approaching. Parking should be based on Karma. The good people luck into the good parking spots. Maybe that’s why these people force us to wait behind them while they connive their way into a spot: they know they’re jerkoffs and they don’t have any good karma to spend on parking.

In any event, finding a parking space should be a gamble. It shouldn’t be a sure thing at the expense of everybody else. After all, it’s parking, not socialism. What a shame we don’t save some road rage for the parking lot, where some actually deserve vehicular manslaughter, or a shower of bullets!

It wouldn’t be so inconsiderate to wait for somebody to vacate a parking spot if the person you’re waiting for didn’t invariably take an eon to back out and drive away. If the parking lot were your alimentary canal, these guys would be the giant wayward shitballs backing things up. Why are these people so slow, anyway? They know somebody’s waiting for their spot. Did they want to finish reading the last few chapters of War and Peace before they backed out? Hey lady! Start the car. Check the mirror. Back out and let this jerkoff take your place! You can finish doing your taxes at home.