Paper Or Plastic?

Most of us have once or 50 times, had the thought of “going postal” at our job race through our head like Danica Patric on her way to a 50% off sale at Victoria's Secrets. That cock hardening fantasy of stalking from office to office with an Armalite AR-10 carbine gas-powered semi-automatic weapon, pumping round after round into colleagues and co-workers.

Myself, I can't think of anyone less deserving of a workplace massacre than my coworkers. Even with my own misery of working for employers with a draconian management style the likes of which haven't been seen since The Spanish Inquisition, I know that the people working in my office have it far worse than I.

If I were to commit such a hubristic act it would be to a far more deserving group of people. That's right, people in grocery stores. Grocery stores are a petri dish of stupidity so viral it makes the Andromeda Strain look like a fucking head cold. Drunk drivers are more cognizant of their surroundings than these brain dead zombies pushing a chopping cart. You may even be one of them. You will of course claim not to be one of these Shopping Cart Shit-heads (SCS), but the rate of denial of this condition is higher than than a group of Oklahoma tweakers on a three week meth binge.

I am still, with all the years of shopping under my belt, bewildered by people who wander off, leaving their cart in the middle of the aisle like the Rapture is coming and the canned beets are where everyone's -the worthy ones- are supposed to pick up their ticket for the non-stop ride to heaven.
They are the most passive aggressive of the SCS'. They rarely acknowledge the inconvenience they cause and if they do, it is with a flippant 'my needs are more important than yours' expression, or a disarming 'I'm sorry, I'm so stupid sometimes' excuse. This breed of SCS is relatively harmless so you might reply with: “Don't sell yourself short. I bet you're this stupid most of the time.”

These Raptures, (shut the fuck up, you would have used it too,) are close cousins to the Meeter-Greeter, who is easily identified by their obliviousness to the existence of all other living things on the planet other than their immediate circle of friends. They are always found in pairs completely blocking a path of travel with their carts as they discuss the most minute detail of their dial tone lives. Inexperienced shoppers have been know to wait for such long periods of time in the vain hope of being allowed to pass that their eyes start to bleed. Engaging Meeter-Greeters is not recommend for anyone but the most experienced and self-confidant shoppers. Any intrusion into the Meeter-Greeter's space is met with an irritated and contemptuous expression. If you attempt to stand your ground the Meeter-Greeter will emit a challenge call. It sounds like this: “You can go around.” At this point it is highly advised that you not push your luck. 99% of Meeter-Greeters are female and this can lull a male shopper into a false sense of being more powerful. If the shopper is female they will often assume they are at least on an equal level with the Meeter-Greeter. This can be a very costly mistake. Meeter-Greeters have a contemptuous disdain for all other living things that borders on the obsessive. Though it's not uncommon for a female Meeter-Greeter to shop alone, they are usually accompanied by their mate. He will come to the female's aid, and they will simultaneously launch a pretentious 'you're lower than beetle balls' attack.

There is one breed of SCS that, though they can be annoying, are also relatively harmless, and if dealt with with caution can be neutralized rather easily. These are the ones who stand -most commonly in the yogurt or ice cream section- blocking any access to a product type that has various selections. This breed of SCS knows instinctively when to arrive before you do and quickly becomes confused and uncertain what selections to make and stand blocking the case bewildered by the choices in front of them. They share the same level of awareness of their surroundings as other SCS': Absolutely none. However, they are the least aggressive of the SCS and experienced shoppers know that by using a phrase such as: “Do you mind if I squeeze in here a sec. and grab a couple of these?” will cause the SCS to respond in a friendly manner and move out of the way.
Caution: It is very important to use the right tone of voice when attempting this. Failure to use a polite tone can cause the SCS' to become defensive, and possibly lash out verbally.

As unpleasant as the above SCS' may seem, there is one breed that is the most offensive and dangerous of them all. The Cell Phone Trampler, (CPT,) is a subspecies of the SCS that has devolved over the past ten years or so. The CPT was first classified as relatively harmless. As it has devolved however, the CPT has become increasingly dangerous. CPT's are often observed without a cart and this leads to a common misconception that they are not a member of the SCS species. In fact, the CPT is very adept at functioning with or without the use of a cart. It is this ability that has kept their primary classification as a SCS. The CPT comes in two primary groups, each having individual markings, and one sub-group that attempts to mimic the markings of the two primary groups. The first primary group is the African American female, the second group is the Hispanic Female, followed by white females trying to act black or Mexican. No one has ever mistaken a white female for the real deal, and are usually laughed at by most observers, and are generally shunned by the two primary groups. They should still be considered dangerous.

(The males of the two primary groups are rarely combative and are identified by their calm, self-confident manner. Males from the white sub-group can be identified by their extremely thick layers of fat covered with tattoos. Their intelligence level is very low, and they are easily distracted with salty snacks, and a six pack of anything.)

The CPT is on it's phone from the time it enters the store until well after it leaves. It moves at a much higher speed than the other SCS', and with a heightened sense of obliviousness (Often leading to the merciless trampling of anyone in their path.) Typically it will charge up and down the aisles seemingly lost, occasionally spinning unexpectedly and grabbing items from the shelf while it argues with a friend or family member on the phone. The longer it is on the phone the more excited it becomes. Use caution if you find yourself in an aisle with one. If you are too near one when they are in a highly agitated state you run the risk of being accidentally hit, as they tend to flail their arms wildly as the phone call gets progressively worse.

IMPORTANT: Never, under any circumstances attempt to confront a CPT. If they sense even the slightest hint of criticism or suggestion of corrective behavior from you they will attack without warning. Usually these attacks are verbal but there have been documented cases of physical aggression. If attacked by a CPT, use a bottle of brightly colored nail polish to lure it into a frozen pizza case where it can later be safely removed by an experienced handler.

Unfortunately, the hunting and killing of SCS' is not yet legal. And where there is a strong desire to, poaching is strongly advised against. The penalties are severe and though most police, prosecutors and judges share your frustration with the inaction of store management and city governments to deal with this wide spread problem, they are bound by the law until those laws are changed.

There are lobbying efforts underway to change the laws, and we may see the day where the SCS' are hunted to near extinction. If you don't want to wind up mounted on somebody's wall, you might want to think about behaving in a manner that clearly sets you apart from the herd.

• Be aware and considerate of those around you.
• Be polite. Say excuse me, move your cart the fuck out of the way.
• I know you're tired, we're all tired, none of us wants to wait in line anymore than you do. Suck it up and tough it out. You'll be home soon enough and you can take it out on your family. That's what they're there for.
• When an eight year old runs over your foot or bumps into your cart, don't give his mother a bunch of shit about it. Bend down to the little guy and quietly tell him if he does it again you'll pop his head like a fucking grape.

The thing is: People don't notice every time you're nice.
But they sure notice every time you're an ass-hole.

Keep The Faith.

The last line of the first paragraph: “ Armalite AR-10...”
Is from the movie: Fight Club.
Written by: Chuck Palahniuk and Jim Uhl

The line used in the third paragraph: “non-stop ride to heaven.”
Is taken from the Buckcherry song: Tired Of You.
Lyric by: Josh Todd

How Much For That Flag In The Window?

It's Saturday night and I'm docked at my usual port of call on the couch watching Forensic Files, (just to pick up any helpful tips,) while nurturing masturbatory fantasies about Forensics Firearms Examiner, Justine Davis, (is it just me, or is she hotter than Hell in a totally nerd-girl way?) and who comes on the tube but Montel Williams as a barker for collectible Obama coins.

Now I don't have any problem with Montel. Yes, his television career tanked after he dared to be an “uppity African American,” and say something he wasn't told to on the FOX network. (“We Report We Decide. Now Shut Your Mouth You Terrorist Piece Of Shit.) And yes he has a web site selling things that... I'm not really sure what they do, but he says they'll make every part of your life better. Montel if nothing else, is a survivor in the world of media where they eat their young, stardom, and life with MS. More power to you brother.

No, what I'm bugged about, (other than not being able to score Justine's e-mail address,) is the RONCOizing of our new President, Big Bad and Black Obama. (Have you seen the abs on this guy? He'll drag Kim Jong Il out on the South Lawn and knock the shit out of him. “You gonna let the inspectors in now bitch?”) The tears have barely dried on the inbred faces of Ku Klux Klaners everywhere and already: Valuable, one of a kind, limited pressings, not to be reissued, we've broken the mold, stencil painted, beautifully embossed with the image of President Obama whatever the fuck it is, are available for $19.95 plus shipping & handling.

Grab yourself a little piece of throw away history.

Plates, coins, pillows, blankets, license plate frames and red, white and fuzzy toilet seat covers flash on the screen of the Idiot Box every 20 minutes. This is the kind of marketing that gives Ron Popeil a geyser shooting chubby that'll last all night. Throughout Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee, and parts of Georgia there are wide load lime green polyester clad asses tripping over their TV trays and sweater wearing chihuahuas to get to the phone and be first in the trailer park to decorate their double-wide with Wal Martesquian slices of history.

It's not like this is anything new. We've all seen commercials for the limited edition Golden Otter $8 coin issued by the Republic of Kiribati, that due to overwhelming demand must be limited to three coins per order. (Unless you ask for more when you call.) What is so alarming about this is the ever increasing volume of these craptastic offerings. This is a sign of one of two things, or God forbid both. Either the herds of stupid people are greater in number than first estimated, or the first count was right but they're getting stupider. Either way it doesn't bode well for those with an I.Q. above room temperature.

American culture has become so mired in accumulating worthless shit we make a Japanese teenager look down-right frugal. We could do a 360 in any room of the house and find five or ten things we wouldn't even notice were gone if someone bypassed the Hi-Def video surveillance system we can monitor from our blackberry as we trade stocks on the Zagreb Stock Exchange while we order Jamaican take out from the comfort of our GPS equipped Hummer, and took them.

You need to upgrade your cell phone every two months because the technology just changes so fast and besides, you're planning on doing a lot more texting so you need the flip-out keyboard and retractable drink holder with matching BlueTooth headset so you can look like a total fucking jerk-off doing your Lt. Uhra impersonation as you're ordering your almond latte and the cashier is trying to figure out if your calling her or your secretary a stupid cunt who can't get anything right.

Better fire off an e-mail to I.T. telling them to order you a new laptop to replace the one they gave you ten minutes ago, because your PowerPoint presentation is getting bigger than China and it just can't keep up with the jackrabbit on crack pace of your ninety minute sales pitch.

Sure, you really did like the BMW X5, but felt it was the right thing to give it to the wife and kids you dumped for the nineteen year old receptionist who blew you under your desk. And since it's just the two of you now, the Boxster made sense.

There may be a lot of things at first glance that seem to set us apart from our collecting brethren in pink stretch pants.

But really, we just pay more for our plates.

It may or may not be true the sanctity of the office of the President died with JFK. And it is important that we keep in mind that our leaders are human just like us. They certainly seem to take every opportunity to prove it. Since the signing of the greatest document mankind has ever penned: The Constitution of the United States, there have been politicians. But there were also those who were Statesmen. Men who's driving purpose was to solve problems and reconcile differences by binding people together. Men who cared for the good of the people and did their best to serve these ends with integrity. None were perfect, and there always have been, and always will be those who are not up to the task.

The responsibility of returning these offices to a position of respect ultimately lie with the men and women who hold them. But if we do not treat them with respect and make it clear that the defiling of them by anyone will not be tolerated, why should anyone else?

We need, all of us need, to decide which is more important: What we have. Or who we are.

Keep The Faith

Was It All That You Feared It Would Be?

The holiday season has left the building faster than Elvis looking for a 24 hour all you can eat Dexedrine buffet. And along with it, the dysfunctional family get together where you get the most for your entertainment dollar when someone keys off on a drunken rant with more “fucks” in it than a forty eight hour Tarantino marathon, ending with their proclamation of a decades long hatred for all you worthless shit heads at the table, before puking in the cranberry sauce.

Now that we've sulked our way through a Christmas darker than a Tim Burton holiday special, we're left drying little Susie's tears with our pink-slip as we try to convince her how much cooler an AM radio is than an iPod. This year the Christmas spirit was personified by the arrest of a 51 year old Maryland woman for stealing her neighbor's Christmas lawn decorations so she could sell them on ebay, and the slaughter of eight people by a spurned husband in a Santa suit. Unlike past years where people were mainlining Christmas spirit like they were Curt Cobain, and would kindly give up a parking place, or pay the bridge toll for the car behind them, this year you ran a good chance of being kidney-punched if you took too long placing your order at Starbucks.

With the economic meltdown just starting to hit it's stride, the American corporate juggernaut has given up all pretext the holidays have anything to do with family, charity, and love for your fellow humans. Instead, launching a full frontal attack for every dollar they can scrape out of us and the beggars cup. The manufactures of money counting machines who once burned the midnight oil in order to keep up with demand are now seeing how fast they can retool into coffin factories to meet the impending wave of bodies of fund managers and mortgage bankers who have committed suicide. (Or at least made to look like a suicide.)

As housing developments become ghost towns over night, and layoffs hit the tens of thousands every week, the upper 1% that ass fucked the American people like we were their prison bitch, will suffer little more than a stiff finger wagging from a Congress that gave them a 30% tax break on the Astroglide.

A new day is dawning on the American horizon, and it looks like we may be starting pretty close to square one and rebuilding this thing from the ground up. For once in this country's modern lifetime, people will have to learn to do without. No more T.G.I. Friday's single serving portions big enough to feed a family of six, just to be thrown out in the same dumpster a homeless woman is digging through for aluminum cans. No more driving vehicles bigger than a bulldozer because you might need to haul two bags of potting soil and a couple of rose bushes, or wood for the one deck you'll build in your entire life. Guess what, Home Depot delivers, now put your fat ass in the Kia and give me a ride to the soup kitchen. No more serial wasting of anything and everything just so we can scream, 'Yes, every thing's okay,' as we run down the middle of the street in our planned community, a baked potato in each hand with a stick of butter up our ass and a bucket of sour cream clenched in our teeth.

The life of chauffeured golf carts, Peppermint White Chocolate Pumpkin Truffle Spice Decaf Macchiatos, hand made by indigenous Chibchas from Columbia, and renting Nevada for Tabatha's sweet sixteen is over. Think back on it fondly, because it's time to do the heavy lifting, and this time around we can't afford to underpay Mexicans to do it for us.

Keep The Faith.