Random thoughts

  • Hugh Grant assaulted a photographer by hurling a can of baked beans at him. The flavor of baked beans? Heinz Divine Brown.
  • In Europe, they sell gasoline for $7 per gallon. We should bomb them just for that.
  • You've probably seen the commercial with this couple. It's for a herpes medication. Anyway, the guy has herpes. The girls doesn't. And they're "trying to keep it that way." The commercial implies their relationship is sexual, naturally. This must be the most understanding girl in the world! Most women complain when you leave the toilet seat down. This lady is willing to play Russian Penis Roulette with Captain Dripdick and share it with the television-viewing world.
  • If I had it to do over again, I'd have 4 children and name them each after a direction on the compass: North, West, East and South. Then I'd psychologically torture them with adages like, “Don't you and your brothers ever grow apart,” and “Don't let anybody else choose your direction in life.”
  • When traveling, I've wondered about the sheriff working the speed trap in the middle of nowhere. One, where does he go to the bathroom? Two, where does he go on his lunch break? And three, is the destination of the speed trap ever so far that by the time he drives there, it's time to turn around and drive home?
  • I know a guy who used to work the copper mines. He told me the workers had to ride a mining train for 2 hours into the mines to get to the work site. Then, at the end of the day, another two hours back. That means every workday you spent 4 hours on your butt. I thought to myself, I want to be a miner.
  • I saw a guy wearing a tee shirt that read, “I'll sleep when I'm dead.” I said to him, “Evidently, you'll take the time to be a douche bag while you're still alive.”
  • You've all heard of “the long arm of the law.” Few, however, have heard of the “long 2nd and 3rd fingers of the proctologist.”
  • Here's another thing I wonder about: How did names like “Cooter,” “Boner,” “Big Pussy” and “BJ” make it through network editors and into some of our favorite TV shows? They were really pressing their luck with the Dick Van Dyke show.
  • Speaking of cooter, beards used to be in style. Nowadays it's more of a goatee.
  • I heard a doctor on the radio advising how to get a good night's sleep. You should avoid 4 things close to bedtime: heavy meals, heavy exercise, alcohol and caffeine. I often have all four of those thing on board when I go to bed and I sleep like a baby.
  • I admire the American work ethic. But when the new drug in this country is sleep, I think we need to question our priorities.
  • We've become too political. Here in my town, a candidate for county dog catcher had his private investigator dig up dirt on his opponent, who allegedly molested a German Shepard back in 1987.
  • If reincarnation is true, I hope I come back as a form of plant life. All you have to do is stand around in the sun and enjoy nature. Plus, unlike animals, nobody is trying to eat you (sure, if you come back as a rutabaga or a potato or something, you're screwed. But most forms of plant life are inedible.). However, you reproduce by pumping pollen into the air or dropping seeds. Animals get to have sex. That's got to be more fun. But then again, shooting pollen might be a plant's form of masturbation, and we all enjoy that.
  • This anti-junkfood campaign has me worried. One day you'll walk into a 7-Eleven and they'll have carrots and celery stalks rolling around in the hotdog rotisserie. And the soda fountain will have various brands of bottled water.


SAHMs & Their Precious Little Booger-Eaters

Don't forget to read Part 1 before reading today's conclusion to A Day at McDonald's.

And now, after a month's absence due to SOCOM 3 addiction, here is the conclusion to A Day at McDonald's, or

Stay-at-Home-Moms and Their Precious Little Booger Eaters at the Playland.

The glut of handicapped seating forced me to the playland section. I ventured beyond the clear plastic partition that barricades the handicapped people (how lucky are they?) from the din and frenzy of the little devils. Playlands are the Viet Nam of the under-8 demographic. I just happened down the Ho Chi Min trail and into Kiddie-Saigon. I found a booth on the southeast perimeter with no sign of Victor Charlie nearby. I pounced on it. It wouldn't be there long as it offered patrons the maximum distance from the playland. Once I settled into the booth, things weren't too bad. The prepubescent VC were a click west in the playland. The noise level was tolerable. I had a comfortable booth seat. Time for me to lock and load some chicken nuggets.

Safe in my foxhole, I ate. The nuggets had a previously frozen, processed taste. The fries – arguably McDonald's best menu idem – were undercooked. They had traces of green potato, glistening in vegetable oil. Oh yeah. This is why I don't like McDonald's. I'm never coming back, I thought. I gagged my rations down and cracked open my book, Freakonomics. I planned to make a big dent in the book this afternoon. My eyes scanned the pages. After a few paragraphs about how blacks are mentally inferior to whites (Oops! I'm sorry. I'm confusing Freakonomics with The Bell Curve. In Freakonomcs, blacks are more likely to be drug dealers. My mistake.) my mind focused. My brain devoured the text. I stopped only for an occasional sip on my diet soda. Before long I needed a refill. I sashayed to the soda fountain and topped of my glass. I'll be damned by what I saw when I returned.

Evidently, Victor Charlie decided to move in on my position. Two little booger-eater bastards were playing in my booth! The two little tykes, maybe 40 pounds apiece, where standing and wandering about in my seat. Undeterred by my personal effects on the table or by any sense of decency or by a conscientious parent, they played with reckless abandon. Even as I approached, they played. They didn't give a damn. They just didn't give a damn. And though they were small, they were old enough to know better. Get outta my booth, you little bastards.

In the neighboring booth sat four stay-at-home-and-suck-your-husband's-cock-twice-per-month moms. Seconds before, when I was reading in my child-free booth, I had to tune out their lofty intellectual dialogue about hair care products and reality programming. Now I had to hope one of these bovine was the aloof mother of the two pint-sized Cong so she could tell them to stand down. I entreated the SAHMs with a stare. No response. I moved closer to my table. Nothing. I stood at my table. Still, nothing. The kids played and moms ignored. Surrendering, I grabbed my book and prepared to leave. Suddenly the kids' mom mustered a shred of maternity. She verbally coaxed the kids down from the booth. “Sweeties. Get down. Come on sweeties. The man is sitting there. Time to get down.” Whoa, take it easy on'em lady. I might have to call Protective Services.

The kids got down. I admit it was no big deal. Kids do stuff like that. But get what happens next. Another of these SAHMs chimes in, “You just don't know what you're going to get when you eat in HERE.” I detected a subtle sarcastic tone.

That comment tore it. That one little comment. It reverberated in my brain for the rest of the afternoon. You just don't know... when you eat in HERE...Here...here... Hey, wait a minute. In that woman's mind, this whole thing was MY fault. She figures I got what I deserved. That's what angered me about the whole affair and that's what moved me to write it down and share it with you. You see, that snarky comment really meant, “Hey you big, dumb guy. How dare you sit in the kiddie section and expect to eat undisturbed? My friend's children are so precious that whatever they do is going to be adorable, including tyrannizing the innocent patrons who have the nerve to sit here and attempt to enjoy a meal.”

As she made her comment, I took my seat and smiled at her. But in my mind I was screaming, Up yours, Tokyo Rose!

This is the kind of shit that puts me at odds with the human race. I expect parents to keep their booger-eaters in check and not dancing on my seat. Is that so unreasonable? But that expectation made me, in the eyes of the SAHMs, a six-fingered rube. I swear, this country needs to rediscover its sense of shame. Nothing's wrong anymore. Especially when kids do it, it's so fucking precious. No matter how irritating or inconsiderate. It's part of that everybody-has-a-valid-point-of-view bullshit. Lady, your kids were making a mockery of civility and an ass out of you. Show due shame. And tell your busybody friend to pop a cork in it. I hope she chokes on her low-fat chicken caesar salad.