Why are people reminding me to “breathe?” Moreover, why are they telling me how to breathe? “We've forgotten how to breathe effectively. Take deep, slow breaths from the abdomen.”
Nonsense. Every one of us has breathed since the doctor cracked us on our baby asses. Breathing is a physiological function. It's automatic, and we're all good at it (except David Hasselhoff, who's too busy sucking in his gut for Baywatch fans). This “breathe” motto is more New Age crackpot buffoonery.
Next, they'll tell I'm no good at defecating, despite having done that all my life (except for 5 days after a fondue cheese incident back in 1998). I dread the day advocates encourage us to defecate. Some hippie's Prius will feature a “defecate” bumpersticker. New Age gurus will instruct me to “bear down with deep, abdominal squeezes and propel the turd downward all the way from your diaphram.”
We all know how to breathe, dammit!
You don't see as many gearheads as you used to. The reason is, muscle cars are disappearing. Two decades of rice-burners have driven the old muscle cars to near-extinction. When I was in high school, a 20-year-old car was manufactured in the 1960s. Keeping a car around for 20 years is no big deal. Therefore you had plenty of 1960s muscle cars in the 1980s. I had one myself. But 20 more years have passed. Now, muscle cars would have had to survived 40 years. That's a tall order. Consequently, not many people own muscle cars anymore. No muscle cars, no gearheads. Now all we have are the Fast-and-Furious-Fags with their rice-burners and their barbwire arm tattoos and their perfect hairdos. Instead of calling new sports cars “rice-burners,” we should call them “hair gel-burners.” Or better yet, “fag wagons.”
Every so often we drivers slow down at a yellow light for fear of blowing the red light, only to see somebody in the next lane zip through. Often, they were even farther back than us, yet they still blow the light -- and nothing bad happens. Then, while we sit and wait, we watch that maniac drive merrily down the street. Nothing makes me feel like a bigger chump than that. We could have blown the light, too, if only we were man enough, like that one guy. No cops in sight. I'm such a chump!
I like to make myself feel better by calling the police on my cell phone and reporting the guy who blew the light, giving the car's make, model and license plate, and mentioning that in addition to the driver's recklessness, I may have seen him brandishing a firearm. With any luck, I'll see that same driver ahead, on the side of the road, being beaten by police nightsticks. Who's the chump now?