In the Name of the King

The other day, I went to grab a burger for lunch. A simple task for me, a simple man, right? Not quite.

I placed my order, probably the most generic and common order ever, and then was floored.

“We’re sorry, sir. We no longer serve the Whopper.”

The words turned my blood to ice. It’s like I was being told my kids were dead, my car had been stolen or that porn was no longer allowed on the internet.

“Excuse me?” I asked, my voice shaking.

“Burger King no longer carries the Whopper.”

The sounds of the world were buried under the dull roar filling my ears. A red film settled over my vision and when it cleared, I was alone in parking lot, covered in blood, fry sauce and brain—human brain, not the cow brain found in delicious fry sauce.

The cops understood, though. It happens quite often, apparently. They hosed me off and sent me on home wrapped up in one of those fuzzy grey blankets you normally have to survive a fire or a car crash to get.

Nothing makes me miss the days of not having cable hooked up to the T.V. more than commercials. As advertising slowly absorbs popular culture, commercials start to look like movies from the past.

Enter the Jackass style Burger King Commercials. What? You want a Whopper? Oh snap! You just got punk’d with a Big Mac, bitch! How entertaining! What effective advertising. I’m definitely going to willingly go to the website to see more commercials.

After I go buy a Triple Whopper, I mean.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for filming unaware people freaking out, especially if there’s profit to be made on top of my amusement (or they’re having sex). But watching people come unhinged and barely restraining themselves from starting a fist fight because they don’t get what they want for lunch isn’t as entertaining for me as it is disturbing.

Maybe it’s a little funny, but now remember one little fact: these people are roaming around, free to travel, loose in society. Maybe they’re in front of you in line at the gas station and about to find out their brand of smokes aren’t available. Maybe they’re behind you at the movies and you’re talking too loud. Maybe you just cut them off in traffic.

Me, I live in fear. I always have a Whopper in my pocket, you know, just in case someone I encounter by chance is out of their meds.

Lucky Bastards

This is the true story of a lucky bastard.

I can’t imagine the kind of fight that has to ensue that you would wake up at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m. to drive three hours to purchase a $150 pair of jeans. I’ve been trying to find a mental touch stone from my own life to picture how the conversation begins, escalates and then ends knowing your life would be better if she had those jeans.

And, the pair of jeans is so specific—it’s not just a name brand or the desire to own a status symbol to help you feel better than people; it has to be THAT pair of jeans from THAT store in Atlantic City. To the credit of the evil being and what seems could be the very definition of a Money Eating Bitch Girlfriend, he had been told to fetch the jeans before—AND FORGOTEN.

Now, I’ve had some hellatious fights in my time, but none of them started because I was holding out on the truer signs of love—a willingness to submit to unreasonable demands (aka the conditions of love). Too much porn? Sure, that’ll start a fight. Didn’t notice your girl shaved her head? Yeah, you’re in trouble. Forgot to blow $150 on a single pair a jeans? Brother, there’s a special level of hell reserved for people like you.

Before the sun was up, it was probably on the sneak—to his remaining friends I mean, that Sammy Zabib drove with a photocopy of the jeans so he wouldn’t purchase the wrong pair—which at this point would be reasonable ground for Money Eating Bitch Girlfriend to murder him.

His eagerness to please worked against him though. He arrived before the shop was even open. With nothing else to do but wait, Sammy started hitting the slots to pass the time. Until the machine he was playing on stopped working. When he fetched security to help him with his problem, they were quick to figure out the problem.

The machine wouldn’t work because Sammy Zabib had hit the jackpot. Maybe not in the girlfriend department—but certainly in the free money department. Nearly $800,000 had been won by our whipped friend (nevermind he thought it was a broken slot machine).

Is this a testament to the power of bitch girlfriends snapping their gum, bouncing their heads side to side while shoving the talk-to-the-hand hand in one’s face, or does it exemplify man’s willingness to do what ever it takes to get her to shut up?

Who knows. Either way, I’m betting Mr. Zahib’s girlfriend is undoubtedly a bitch; and him having a sudden $800,000 isn’t going to improve her demands of him. She definitely deserves some gold dipped chocolates, $1000 skirts and a spa treatment with imported mud. Hopefully though, he’s not so whipped he’ll be able demand at least a threesome.

Link and Wink

Ok, there’s a new msn virus spreading faster than the clap after the Navy leaves port. You may have gotten this insidious virus and not even known it. You’ll get a message from someone who has you on their list. It’s a link and a wink that looks about like this

http://www.tabya.info/list ;):

The actual website link might be different; I’ve seen a few versions of Link and Wink.

If you follow the link you’ll be told to log into your msn account at this page so you can see everyone who has deleted you off their list or has blocked you. After that, well you fell for it.

It’s sneaky for sure; my friends send messageless links to me all the time. My bastard’s cap is tipped.

After words, you’ll be logged out of your msn messenger because you signed in somewhere else. Don’t worry, that’s just the virus link and wink going out to everyone on your list.

So, how do you stop that? Just change your password. Simple right?

Apparently not! It took me a few minutes of clicking around to finally figure it out. And I know some of you don’t have the patience, so here it is (because it’s just as bastardly to ruin their fun):

The Bastard’s MSN Password Changing Walkthrough:

From your MSN IM, go to TOOLS and then to OPTIONS. The option menu has many sections, the top one, PERSONAL is where you need to be.

From there, find and click the EDIT PROFILE button, which will bring up your profile in internet explorer. In the upper left hand corner is the Windows Logo in a circle with the accompanying words “Windows Live”. Click that and select “account” from the drop down menu.

This time it’s safe to log in, so go ahead and put your password in. From here you’ll see all of your account stats.

You’ll see a section called “Password reset information” in bold, under which is the Change Password link you’ll need to change your password—which robs Link and Wink’s ability to log you in and send itself out to your collected bunch of cyber sluts* and tarnish your good name.


*Everyone is a cyber slut.

Heath Ledger is a Cunt (but not a Bastard)

I had to leave work early when I looked down at my msn messenger’s where the news teasers try to provoke you to click the conveniently placed link and read the news, “Heath Ledger, Dead.”

I even forgot to clock out. This morning my boss was pissed until I explained myself. I didn’t get in any trouble. In fact, we had a good, manly kind of cry together.

I went home and watched Brokeback Mountain and just fucking cried the entire movie.

Here’s three bastardly things about celebrities dying.

1. Goodbye Work Day! The second the morbid news hits my office, everyone turns on the gossip mode. Granted, I spread the word, but only to girls and gay dudes and anyone who’s first response is likely to be to the tune of, “But he was hot! Like hot-hot! I masturbate to him all the time!” Well d'uh! Who doesn't masturbate to Heath Ledger all the time? Guess what--you still can!

Everyone spends the rest of the day goofing off to the theme of whoever just bit it. It usually follows a pattern of stopping people wherever you encounter them, making sure they’ve both heard the news and can reference the proper image of the departed via a movie you’ve both seen. Next, talk about how he finished filming The Dark Knight and then quietly admit you’ve seen Brokeback Mountain*.

2. Drugs. I resent that rich people not only get the high quality drugs, but they get high quality drugs in such quantity they are able to kill themselves with them. Way to rub it in, jerks. Why not just shoot yourself with a diamond and ruby encrusted gold bullet?

My understanding of drugs is that they are fun. I also understand that there are drugs one can consume that would take near impossible amounts to ingest before you die. What ever happened to potheads?

3. It’s a Persona. I knew nothing about Mr. Ledger until yesterday. None of those little tidbits of gossip had reached my bastard's ears. Who knows what anyone famous is really like in real life. We are presented with an image of famous people that is conducive to all things that go into the tidal waves of money that follow the famous elite.

I never hear about an actor’s job being intriguing—look at all the methods they employ to get their characters across (at varying levels, you have to admit). It boils down to attraction level. Nevermind what is attractive shifts with sands.

I can honestly say it is sad to me that Mr. Ledger’s daughter has to grow up with that hole in her life. I hope she, and all kids who've lost a parent or two, has some very positive role models around her (and her piles of money—her mom’s an actress too. If you don't want to feel bad focus on the piles of money).


*I haven’t! Neither I nor my wife** like romance movies.

**Ladies, this will increase your awesome factor nicely, depending on the heterosexuality level of your man.

When Bastards Watch Your Kids so You Can Go Out on Your Birthday:

“Applebee’s, this is Cass,” she sounded calm. I listened for the mad roar of a packed restaurant in the full swing of a rush—it wasn’t crazy. My plan could procede.

“Cass, my brother in law and his wife are eating there right now. It’s his birthday, but he’s one of those guys who won’t tell his server and get his free cake. If I describe him to you, could you find his server and let ‘em know it’s his birthday?”

I know it’s annoying and not many of us enjoy the parade of servers clapping their hands and signing their company’s approved birthday song. But goddamnit, birthdays stop being cool the second you have the ability to buy your own stuff, I had to do something to liven up the event.

Cass laughed, and asked me to describe them.

“They’re a bigger couple. He’s wearing a black, long sleeved shirt with white stripes going down the sleeves,” I say, checking the notes I secretly took when they dropped their kid off. “She’s in a grey top, dark pants. It’s just the two of them.”

A few seconds of silence passed as she scanned her restaurant. “Got ‘em. I’m looking right them.” she says. I knew when I called there was a chance that “Going to dinner” meant “Going back home for no-baby-in-house sex," and they might not be there getting dinner. I didn’t really care, I would have watched their brat either way. But I was glad they were there. This was much funnier.

“Cass, you are awesome to the awesometh power.” She agreed with me and got off the phone. I flipped my phone shut and smiled my satisfied bastard's smile.