19 July 2005

It's getting hot in herre

If one more so-called meteorologist on our third rate local newcast comments on the "beautiful, clear weather ahead" I'm going to start kicking asses and taking names... Anything over 90 -- scratch that, over 85 -- is hot, do you hear me? HOT.

Hot is not "beautiful" for those of us with non-anorexic figures who can't wear an eentsy little spandex thing and shorts with a clear conscience. Hot is not "beautiful" for those of us with upstairs bedrooms that don't cool down until midnight. Hot is not "beautiful" for those of us who have to WORK for a living (in a place with inadequate AC, no less) rather than lounge by the freakin' river and swill PBR all day.

Hot is hot, sweaty, scratchy hell. Got it? This is Oregon. If you like this crap then move down to Southern Freakin' California and shut up.

Thanks, I feel better now...

18 July 2005

What the...?

Eric Rudolph angrily denounced abortion at the hearing and told the federal court that "deadly force is needed to stop it."
From The New York Times Website
July 18, 2005

Am I missing something here? It's not the first time I've heard this kind of oxyMoronish justification for the misdeeds of cowardly weasels, but every time I'm struck anew by the irony and complete lack of logic. Where does it come from? Upbringing? Mental illness?

No matter the reason, why is the son of a bitch allowed to live? Perhaps. though, that is the worst punishment. I would personally rather die than be locked up for the rest of my life. Here's to hoping this asshole feels the same way...

12 July 2005

Recipe for Whirled Peas

Today, boys and girls, we're going to talk about manners. What's that you say, you never heard that word before? You don't know what it means? What a surprise.

Whether you want to call it manners or not is up to you. The real subject matter is basic, common courtesy. It's that little inner voice that your parents should have started drilling into your head from birth that says...

How does my current behavior affect:
a) my coworkers
b) my friends
c) my neighbors
d) the person behind me in the checkout line/turn lane/ticket line
e) the driver ahead/behind/beside me
f) my child's development
g) all carbon based life forms within range of my actions

Wouldn't the world be a far better place if everyone had that little voice? And actually cared what it said at any given time? Consider these examples:

"Gee, I'm at work. I wonder if the annoying ringtone and volume of my cell phone bother anyone? Maybe I should turn it to vibrate, or -- here's a thought -- off completely?"

"Hmmm, I'm in the mood to listen to gansta rap at full volume. I wonder if my badass bass booster spreads this crap for blocks, annoying the hell out of everyone but me?"

"I know I'm going to be writing a check. Maybe while I'm standing here waiting I could get my thumb out of my ass and start filling in everything but the amount?"

"I've been hired to do some work on a private residence. Do you suppose they'll mind if I bring my little inbred hillbilly family along to hang out all day and stare in the windows?"

"Perhaps my religion is just one of many here on earth, and maybe, just maybe, my religion is wrong and all others aren't going straight to hell. So maybe they don't want me to knock on their door or blow up their buildings to get my point across."

What would the world be like right this very minute, if the parents of Saddam Hussein and Osama Bin Laden had put that little voice in their heads?

07 July 2005

Wake-up Call

Just when I'm filled with self-righteous contempt for my intolerable living situation, some damned terrorist has to go bugger it up.

I've spent the last two weeks or more bitching to all who would listen about all the trailer trash in my neighborhood blowing things up for their own reptilian amusement. After this morning's events I feel a little ashamed.

(Not totally, since the local dumbasses are still dumbasses no matter what happens in the rest of the world.)

But just imagine: You're riding the bus or train like you would any morning, sitting there half-asleep or reading the newspaper or lost in a blissful IPod world, and kablooey. Your little corner of the world blows up. You may now be: just scared shitless; covered with someone else's blood; looking at the stump where your hand used to be; dead. Dead is probably the least traumatic option, for you anyway.

Guess a few fireworks aren't that bad.