Last time I had a tooth turn on me it was a molar. Luckily, I was in college and had zero medical coverage so all I could really afford was to have the bastard pulled. Mrs. Bastard's job provides decent dental, so when a corner chipped off during a vigorous contest with a candy coated malt egg, I went in hoping it was a some drilling and a filling.
After my dentist got into my tooth (who loves the smell of burning tooth? OMG me too!) we found out it was not to be so. The choice to make (after he removed the sexy dental damn and the device that helps keep the mouth open) was pull it or do a root canal.
Being kind of young yet, it seemed like the smart thing to do was to get a root canal. Oh, who the fuck am I kidding--I had insurance for once in my life so I opted to keep my Bastard's Smile in tact. Otherwise, I'd be down two teeth.
Apparently most teeth have three roots--unless you're a bastard. Then you get to have four, which makes for more drilling and an extra nerve to pull out. That forth root, however, was infected.
Apparently, some of a root canal's bad reputation stems from infected roots. The PH level of the infection has a neutralizing effect on anesthesia. So if the dentist keeps on drilling--you're gonna feel it.
My dentist opted to throw on a temporary filling and have me come back in ten or days.
TEN or so days later, I'm back in the chair. Infection is gone. My first root canal is finally going to happen! No more of this "just the tip, baby" bullshit.
After I was all numbed up and my mouth properly wedged open he explained the procedure and how it was going to take at least an hour, probably an hour and a half. His assistant put headphones on me and handed me the remote. She explains it's not cable, just a bunch of movies.
The chair goes back into the laying position and the ceiling TV comes on. The drill starts spinning but I can still hear the shows. I began flipping through the movies, just letting the channel change, not really looking at what's on.
I stoppedthe channel surfing randomly as my dentist positioned himself above me, his trusty drill in hand.
What's on? Cast Away.
What part? Every one's favorite I'm sure--the part where he takes out a tooth with a rock and an ice skate.
I can't help it--I have a morbid sense of humor I guess. I start laughing. Apparently this isn't a common reaction to ungassed patients. He stopped and looked questioningly at me. I gestured up as best I could. If he'd looked up a second later he'd had missed the scene and I'd just be the crazy guy who thinks root canals are funny. But he gazed up in time.
He laughed while I chuckled and drooled. "See," he said, flipping his tooth drill back on. "It could be worse!"
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Dear Consumers: You're Still Dumb and We McLove It!
A bad, bad, bad experience with some evil McNuggets and puking from wake to sleep soured me on McDonalds years ago. Mrs. Bastard and I were only dating then, but she split the meal with me, so we bonded as we tried not to puke on each other. It helped me prove I was a gentleman. I let her heave her guts into the toilet while I used the sink.
Today, if someone suggests McDonalds as a lunch destination, I send an elbow right above their eye, grab them by the collar and through clenched teeth growl, “You go get me a WHOPPER!”
I’ve accepted the fact that I’ll be avoiding McDonalds for the rest of my life. If Jack in the Box could kill children with their undercooked hamburgers (ala that 1993 outbreak of e coli ) I’m pretty sure ol’ Ronald McDonald could rape some kids in from of their moms, set the family on fire and piss all over the ashes and the general populous would still be happily ordering Big Mac’s.
Adding to the many reasons to be annoyed is their expanding menu in the hopes of competing with other franchises. More coffee flavors? Your ship’s sinking Starbucks! Sub style sandwiches that aren’t deep fried and drenched in mayo? Methinks I hear Subway’s death toll sounding! And who are the people renting their fucking movies from a red vending machine in McDonalds?
They aren’t stopping there either. In Britain, McDonalds has decided to make their food more appealing to the tea and crumpet crowd.
“Oh good, Bastard!” You say. “They’re improving the quality of their product! Maybe now their burgers will grow fungus like normal burgers placed under glass!*”
Wrong again, asshole! McDonalds hired British fashion designer Bruce Oldfield, to redesign the staff uniforms at McDonalds. This is what he came up with:
I just love the McScarf! Nothing makes feel better about mass produced deep fried grease food than having it served by well dressed employee. It’s just fucking classy and that just proves how classy I am for super sizing my meal.
You have to wonder when the U.S. uniforms will be changing and how it will appeal to our American sensibilities. I’m envisioning a McHooters situation, but with more of a classy low cut shirt to show off the girls and maybe some of the tuxedo print t-shirts for the boys. Oh, and minimum wage and shitty insurance for all!
*Watch the extras on Super Size Me—they don’t.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Spreading the eWealth!
I apologize for posting this later in the day—later than I would have liked anyways. I typically have my article written before heading out for work on Monday and Thursday. I read over of it, make any corrections and the post it from work. I figure since I don’t smoke it counts as a break. Anyways, today was crazy right out of the shoot—but that’s a whole other blog. So, I apologize to anyone who checked and checked and checked for the new blog.
_
Once upon a time, when my daughter was three she threw a hellacious fit—we’re talking yelling and screaming, feet and fist pounding on the floor, head spinning in circles while pea-green fluid shot out like half kinked hose kind of a fit. All provoked because she had missed a family favorite TV show known as The Simpson.
Our parental reaction was simple; we turned off the cable. I admit it was with a smug sort of pleasure that I showed her all of the static filled channels. For three glorious years we didn’t have TV. The dusty beast stayed off unless we were playing a video game or watching a movie.
I graduated college and moved into a house where the cable is bundled in with the rent—having it off wasn’t an option thanks to a housing association. College had choked much of the life out of my casual reading habit and so once again, we have cable TV and it didn’t sound like the most horrible idea in the world.
It was incredibly strange to have it back on. I was in shock at all of the reality TV programming, all with huge amounts of editors and writers listed in the credits. People were being anything but real and I couldn’t stomach any of it. It seemed the only “real” things left on TV was sports and nature shows.
There are only handfuls of shows I watch of my own accord. Mrs. Bastard is a Law and Order junky and it’s not a bad show, so I can stay in the room while she’s getting her fix.
I hear good things about Lost—which I haven’t watch mostly to aggravate my good friend Flo, just for shits ‘n giggles, and I hear Hero’s is awesome.
My problem with TV shows is the initial reasons one likes a show and gets attached become lost as the seasons wear on and the focus becomes keeping viewers as opposed to staying true to a story—or I end up being among the minority of fans who go down with the ship, so to speak, as the series isn’t picked up. Deadwood, for example, is probably my favorite show ever that never got finished.
I like good stories be it in book form or show form. I wouldn’t say I’m an anime fan, but I do watch some anime. The difference for me is anime fans will sit through shitty storylines simply because they are watching anime. And I don’t read manga, so I have that level of separation as well.
The main problem is all the quality story anime is hard to come by. If you don’t’ have high speed internet I’m not sure how you would access it. Adult Swim has picked up some of the series but so much is lost in the translation I’d rather read the subtitles (subbed) instead of the voice over version (dubbed).
Mrs. Bastard and I both work. We have one car and kids. Often times she’s not done with work until the early a.m. so unless I want to bundle up the kids after midnight to go fetch her home—I’m without a car all evening.
Going out to the movies is incredibly rare—and when we do get the opportunity it’s usually after all the good movies have left town—and if they’re rated “R” they do so fast.
We have one movie theater company in town and what movies are played is heavily influenced by the Mormon standards (they aren’t supposed to watch R rated movies). So, There Will Be Blood was here for all of a week.
Joox.net is my salvation and not everyone knows about it, so I’m taking some time to spread the wealth on my own prompting. Meaning Joox didn’t call me up and say, “Hey Bastard, give us a shout out! Here’s a pile of money.” Joox has TV shows, movies, documentaries, anime, kid cartoons…really there’s just so much. I’ve been watching Blood (in the anime section).
It’s not perfect—not everything will load, but most of it does. And there’s nothing you need to download except maybe a quick update that lets you view the programs with their software. It’s all streamed, like YouTube. Also similar to the Tube, you can upload programs as well.
Free is undeniably nice and I justify (rationalize, whatever!) watching it without a ticket or receipt because typically if something is good, I like to own my own copy. Where as if I find some music I like, I try and buy t-shirt or go to their concert—something that puts the funds closer to the artists.
So, if you’re life doesn’t permit you to get out as often as you like for whatever reason, check Joox out. And if you see something like don’t be shy about trying to get some money their way. And if it sucks—fuck ‘em! At least the price was right.
_
Once upon a time, when my daughter was three she threw a hellacious fit—we’re talking yelling and screaming, feet and fist pounding on the floor, head spinning in circles while pea-green fluid shot out like half kinked hose kind of a fit. All provoked because she had missed a family favorite TV show known as The Simpson.
Our parental reaction was simple; we turned off the cable. I admit it was with a smug sort of pleasure that I showed her all of the static filled channels. For three glorious years we didn’t have TV. The dusty beast stayed off unless we were playing a video game or watching a movie.
I graduated college and moved into a house where the cable is bundled in with the rent—having it off wasn’t an option thanks to a housing association. College had choked much of the life out of my casual reading habit and so once again, we have cable TV and it didn’t sound like the most horrible idea in the world.
It was incredibly strange to have it back on. I was in shock at all of the reality TV programming, all with huge amounts of editors and writers listed in the credits. People were being anything but real and I couldn’t stomach any of it. It seemed the only “real” things left on TV was sports and nature shows.
There are only handfuls of shows I watch of my own accord. Mrs. Bastard is a Law and Order junky and it’s not a bad show, so I can stay in the room while she’s getting her fix.
I hear good things about Lost—which I haven’t watch mostly to aggravate my good friend Flo, just for shits ‘n giggles, and I hear Hero’s is awesome.
My problem with TV shows is the initial reasons one likes a show and gets attached become lost as the seasons wear on and the focus becomes keeping viewers as opposed to staying true to a story—or I end up being among the minority of fans who go down with the ship, so to speak, as the series isn’t picked up. Deadwood, for example, is probably my favorite show ever that never got finished.
I like good stories be it in book form or show form. I wouldn’t say I’m an anime fan, but I do watch some anime. The difference for me is anime fans will sit through shitty storylines simply because they are watching anime. And I don’t read manga, so I have that level of separation as well.
The main problem is all the quality story anime is hard to come by. If you don’t’ have high speed internet I’m not sure how you would access it. Adult Swim has picked up some of the series but so much is lost in the translation I’d rather read the subtitles (subbed) instead of the voice over version (dubbed).
Mrs. Bastard and I both work. We have one car and kids. Often times she’s not done with work until the early a.m. so unless I want to bundle up the kids after midnight to go fetch her home—I’m without a car all evening.
Going out to the movies is incredibly rare—and when we do get the opportunity it’s usually after all the good movies have left town—and if they’re rated “R” they do so fast.
We have one movie theater company in town and what movies are played is heavily influenced by the Mormon standards (they aren’t supposed to watch R rated movies). So, There Will Be Blood was here for all of a week.
Joox.net is my salvation and not everyone knows about it, so I’m taking some time to spread the wealth on my own prompting. Meaning Joox didn’t call me up and say, “Hey Bastard, give us a shout out! Here’s a pile of money.” Joox has TV shows, movies, documentaries, anime, kid cartoons…really there’s just so much. I’ve been watching Blood (in the anime section).
It’s not perfect—not everything will load, but most of it does. And there’s nothing you need to download except maybe a quick update that lets you view the programs with their software. It’s all streamed, like YouTube. Also similar to the Tube, you can upload programs as well.
Free is undeniably nice and I justify (rationalize, whatever!) watching it without a ticket or receipt because typically if something is good, I like to own my own copy. Where as if I find some music I like, I try and buy t-shirt or go to their concert—something that puts the funds closer to the artists.
So, if you’re life doesn’t permit you to get out as often as you like for whatever reason, check Joox out. And if you see something like don’t be shy about trying to get some money their way. And if it sucks—fuck ‘em! At least the price was right.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Interview with the Bastard: A Musician with a Keyboard
I'm glad I'm a writer. I write stuff all the time but most of it's fictional though. However, this era of self publishing allows for things like this lil blog o mine to be very gratifying. Nothing quite makes you feel like a writer like having people read what you are writing. I know, the elegence of my style steals the breath, no?
That said, I'm glad my outlet wasn't in something like music. I mean, I'm glad all you musicians exist but I would never want to be one. I have kids so there's only so much drinking I squeeze into a day. But, I imagine nothing makes you feel like a musician like having people hear your stuff and respond--love it or hate at least you got a reaction, right?
So it is with much respect I imagine I am itroducing you guys to an independent artist named Brandon via an interview. He did everything it takes to get a record length project together. His label, Webbed Hand Records www.webbedhandrecords.com electronicly publishes and distributes the albums, as well as the projects of many other indepentents. And, much like this blog, it's all free and done in the hopes of bigger things.
Brandon has made three albums to date. His current work is described as electronic music and I would say appeals to people who don't mind listening to something that is more suggestive of a mood as opposed to something you're going to be banging your fist to.
INTERVIEW
Where do you find your inspiration for your music? Who
would you say has influenced your own sound and style?
As far as inspiration goes, so far I have found it in women. I know, sounds cliche, but its true. Both of TNOL's official albums were inspired by two different women.
In regards to influence, I cannot really pin any specific artist for that. I mean, when I play guitar, it's metal...chugge chugga shit. When I sit down with a keyboard in front of me, well...this is the result.
My style, however, is one that I think is not as common. I tend to create audio with a feeling in mind, so it is something that feels alive, with purpose.
How hard is it to describe your style of music to
people? You use the word “Ambient” to describe most of
your work. Do you feel your music is more accessible to
people who are in a certain mood, or more for people
seeking to share the mood you, the artist, is setting?
Well, I tend to use the word "Ambient" as this will put the listener in a certain frame of mind, they will know what to expect. I am uncertain how my music affects people at this point, as I am still new to the whole electronic scene.
I think people that listen will identify with what is happening at that moment. A response I often hear, is when people have listened to the whole album, how they cannot believe 45 minutes or close to an hour has gone by.
Apparently I have done a good job at taking the listener with me on which ever journey they choose to hear.
Could you explain the process of self publishing a
record? Where did you find your label?
Well, initially I wanted to do it on my own. As any artist would love to have as much control as possible. Though, in my situation, I was not known at all. As I said, this was the first project and first attempt at releasing an album.
I scoured the Internet for a net label (which typically will allow free download of their music) that had the same idea/vision as me musically. Just with a real record label, net labels try to stick to a pre-determined genre. I found an ambient net label called: Webbed Hand Records (www.webbedhandrecords.com), their catalog was pretty extensive.
My first album was the 88th release. My last release was 99, and that was done in about 3 months. So the label is growing pretty quickly. As far as the process, it was so easy with WHR, I emailed the owner, shopped my album and I got approval that the label was interested in releasing it.
There was no smoke and mirrors, I just submitted it and it was approved.
How much time does it take you to to piece your record
together? Is there much excess material when you are
done? If so, what do you do with it?
Hah, If I told you, would you even believe me? Ok, here are the secrets. The first album, Lullaby was done in two working days. Now, as jaws drop, let me explain. The music flows...it is ambient, so a lot of pads and synths are used.
I play freehand, not writing the material...but recording it as I go. This makes the process pretty quick. Once I record a section, I go back and will edit note length or a flawed note. The mixdown of those two days however, the music mumbo jumbo, such as effects and EQ took about three weeks.
Then I mastered it, which took another couple of weeks...so, the actuall composition was the shortest part...to get it to SOUND the way it does took about a month and a half. The second album Shores took about 5-6 days to compose, as I was being a little harder on myself. The mix and mastering process took even longer, again, because it was the follow up album.
As far as excess material, no...in these two albums, there is none. Each album...the music was composed as one track and THEN it is cut up, post. So, the first album was released as 11 tracks, but when recorded, it was one 52 minute track. I do have material that is created as experiments or of a genre that is not ambient, I have plans to release a B-sides album shortly.
What are some of the difficulties you face when
recording a record all by yourself? Have you ever
found yourself unable to shape your sounds just how
you want them?
The difficulty is there, no doubt. For instance, anyone who has ever jammed with musicians will know that you only have one job...your instrument. When composing solo, it is just that: Composing. I have to attempt to hear multiple melodies, rhythm, and texture (as it IS ambient).
As far as me being unable to create something...no, I haven't run into that issue yet. I am pretty capable at getting what I want...again, thus far, haha.
After all of your solo projects, do you have any
interests with working with other musicians?
You know, I do miss the "band" element. Those are my roots you know...being in many bands growing up, playing shows and such.
However, at the moment, I really enjoy the musical freedom by doing what *I* want to do. I have had offers for E-bands (music projects that send files over the net), but turned them all down so far.
What are you working on now?
Well, I am involved in a number of projects. At the moment, I am focusing on a project called: We Destroy Forcefields. It takes a unique spin on sonic creation. All of the audio will be created soley with guitar and bass.
Now, when hearing that...people tend to assume it will be multiple guitar harmonies, but remember...I am working with electronics now :) The result is an experimental fusion of guitar and what sounds like synths, pads, choir elements and rhythmic elements, but all with the guitar.
How do you know when you have a finished record? Are
you looking to satisfy a number of tracks, or an album
length or . . . ?
This is actually the hardest thing a musician faces I think...when to say enough is enough. Most work, I prefer to be a tad long, only so the listener doesn't feel jipped, but if a piece were short, then it just would be.
You cant repeat the same thing over and over you know. With the WDF project, I am looking to satisfy a track amount, as it started as an experiment...turned out nice, but will most likely only have one release. The ambient works have been geared towards length.
________________________
Current Projects for You to Enjoy:
MySpaces:
The Nature of Light
Alceste
We Destroy Forcefields
Webbed Hand Records:
The Nature of Light: Shores of Jupiter
The Nature of Light: Lullaby for Madisen
Aleste: For
__________
Any questions you have for Brandon can be emailed to me at bastardsmouth@gmail.com or directly to him as soon as he ok's publishing his email. Also, if you have something you want reviewed or interviewed, same deal.
That said, I'm glad my outlet wasn't in something like music. I mean, I'm glad all you musicians exist but I would never want to be one. I have kids so there's only so much drinking I squeeze into a day. But, I imagine nothing makes you feel like a musician like having people hear your stuff and respond--love it or hate at least you got a reaction, right?
So it is with much respect I imagine I am itroducing you guys to an independent artist named Brandon via an interview. He did everything it takes to get a record length project together. His label, Webbed Hand Records www.webbedhandrecords.com electronicly publishes and distributes the albums, as well as the projects of many other indepentents. And, much like this blog, it's all free and done in the hopes of bigger things.
Brandon has made three albums to date. His current work is described as electronic music and I would say appeals to people who don't mind listening to something that is more suggestive of a mood as opposed to something you're going to be banging your fist to.
INTERVIEW
Where do you find your inspiration for your music? Who
would you say has influenced your own sound and style?
As far as inspiration goes, so far I have found it in women. I know, sounds cliche, but its true. Both of TNOL's official albums were inspired by two different women.
In regards to influence, I cannot really pin any specific artist for that. I mean, when I play guitar, it's metal...chugge chugga shit. When I sit down with a keyboard in front of me, well...this is the result.
My style, however, is one that I think is not as common. I tend to create audio with a feeling in mind, so it is something that feels alive, with purpose.
How hard is it to describe your style of music to
people? You use the word “Ambient” to describe most of
your work. Do you feel your music is more accessible to
people who are in a certain mood, or more for people
seeking to share the mood you, the artist, is setting?
Well, I tend to use the word "Ambient" as this will put the listener in a certain frame of mind, they will know what to expect. I am uncertain how my music affects people at this point, as I am still new to the whole electronic scene.
I think people that listen will identify with what is happening at that moment. A response I often hear, is when people have listened to the whole album, how they cannot believe 45 minutes or close to an hour has gone by.
Apparently I have done a good job at taking the listener with me on which ever journey they choose to hear.
Could you explain the process of self publishing a
record? Where did you find your label?
Well, initially I wanted to do it on my own. As any artist would love to have as much control as possible. Though, in my situation, I was not known at all. As I said, this was the first project and first attempt at releasing an album.
I scoured the Internet for a net label (which typically will allow free download of their music) that had the same idea/vision as me musically. Just with a real record label, net labels try to stick to a pre-determined genre. I found an ambient net label called: Webbed Hand Records (www.webbedhandrecords.com), their catalog was pretty extensive.
My first album was the 88th release. My last release was 99, and that was done in about 3 months. So the label is growing pretty quickly. As far as the process, it was so easy with WHR, I emailed the owner, shopped my album and I got approval that the label was interested in releasing it.
There was no smoke and mirrors, I just submitted it and it was approved.
How much time does it take you to to piece your record
together? Is there much excess material when you are
done? If so, what do you do with it?
Hah, If I told you, would you even believe me? Ok, here are the secrets. The first album, Lullaby was done in two working days. Now, as jaws drop, let me explain. The music flows...it is ambient, so a lot of pads and synths are used.
I play freehand, not writing the material...but recording it as I go. This makes the process pretty quick. Once I record a section, I go back and will edit note length or a flawed note. The mixdown of those two days however, the music mumbo jumbo, such as effects and EQ took about three weeks.
Then I mastered it, which took another couple of weeks...so, the actuall composition was the shortest part...to get it to SOUND the way it does took about a month and a half. The second album Shores took about 5-6 days to compose, as I was being a little harder on myself. The mix and mastering process took even longer, again, because it was the follow up album.
As far as excess material, no...in these two albums, there is none. Each album...the music was composed as one track and THEN it is cut up, post. So, the first album was released as 11 tracks, but when recorded, it was one 52 minute track. I do have material that is created as experiments or of a genre that is not ambient, I have plans to release a B-sides album shortly.
What are some of the difficulties you face when
recording a record all by yourself? Have you ever
found yourself unable to shape your sounds just how
you want them?
The difficulty is there, no doubt. For instance, anyone who has ever jammed with musicians will know that you only have one job...your instrument. When composing solo, it is just that: Composing. I have to attempt to hear multiple melodies, rhythm, and texture (as it IS ambient).
As far as me being unable to create something...no, I haven't run into that issue yet. I am pretty capable at getting what I want...again, thus far, haha.
After all of your solo projects, do you have any
interests with working with other musicians?
You know, I do miss the "band" element. Those are my roots you know...being in many bands growing up, playing shows and such.
However, at the moment, I really enjoy the musical freedom by doing what *I* want to do. I have had offers for E-bands (music projects that send files over the net), but turned them all down so far.
What are you working on now?
Well, I am involved in a number of projects. At the moment, I am focusing on a project called: We Destroy Forcefields. It takes a unique spin on sonic creation. All of the audio will be created soley with guitar and bass.
Now, when hearing that...people tend to assume it will be multiple guitar harmonies, but remember...I am working with electronics now :) The result is an experimental fusion of guitar and what sounds like synths, pads, choir elements and rhythmic elements, but all with the guitar.
How do you know when you have a finished record? Are
you looking to satisfy a number of tracks, or an album
length or . . . ?
This is actually the hardest thing a musician faces I think...when to say enough is enough. Most work, I prefer to be a tad long, only so the listener doesn't feel jipped, but if a piece were short, then it just would be.
You cant repeat the same thing over and over you know. With the WDF project, I am looking to satisfy a track amount, as it started as an experiment...turned out nice, but will most likely only have one release. The ambient works have been geared towards length.
________________________
Current Projects for You to Enjoy:
MySpaces:
The Nature of Light
Alceste
We Destroy Forcefields
Webbed Hand Records:
The Nature of Light: Shores of Jupiter
The Nature of Light: Lullaby for Madisen
Aleste: For
__________
Any questions you have for Brandon can be emailed to me at bastardsmouth@gmail.com or directly to him as soon as he ok's publishing his email. Also, if you have something you want reviewed or interviewed, same deal.
Monday, April 14, 2008
HAPPY BIRTHDAY FLO
I have a handful of friends…somehow. I try not to think too hard about the how or why. If I were having a barbeque or a party, I could easily fill my house up with at least twenty or so people, and just because there’d be free booze at any rager I was hosting.
The best friend variety is a bit harder to come by. When I say best friend, I mean the kind of friend you can call because you need some help chopping up a body and getting rid of the various pieces of meat—no questions asked. At this point in my life, I’ve had friends come and go for all the little reasons people slip in out of our lives—distance, time, you get married and stop calling, but I’ve managed to keep a few true friends close.
Today my minions (you did know you’re all my minions . . . right? Sorry this is how you had to find out) I’d like to acknowledge one such friend on today, his birthday—a man I call Flo.
“A man named, Flo? That’s kind of weird!” You might be saying. Normally I retort by snarling something snide—but I’m way too drunk, so this time I’m just hurling an empty whiskey bottle at your back-talking face.
His real name is Erik, and the story of why he is nicknamed Flo isn’t that cool—basically it’s an evolved and shorted version of a name someone else was signing on a crude drawing someone drew in middle school art class.
And that’s the shitty thing about nicknames—you’re not allowed to pick your own.
We called him Flo all through high school, and the nickname had almost gone away much to his delight when he joined me at college. While showing him around and introducing him to the professors, I called him “Flo.”
One of the professors instantly liked it, and eventually the entire department, students and facality took to calling him Flo like crack in a ghetto.
In celebration of his birthday, I’d like to recount just a few of our adventures that won’t result in him getting a divorce.
PRANK CALLS
Generally speaking, prank calls are just funny.
Once, we called a local restaurant at 11pm and explained to the manager our friend who was due at the air port in an hour had snuck out on us. He loved their restaurant, and we suspected he was there. We told him our friend went by “Stinky.” We didn’t know what he was wearing or who he was with but we desperately needed to know if he was there.
After he went table to table asking “Is your name Stinky?” he told us no one was there going by that name.
We asked if there was one last thing he could do for us?
“What’s that?”
“Could I roger you in the bum?”
I don’t know why we thought that phrase was so funny—but we did, and that’s usually how ended the call. I’m chuckling now in fact.
In high school, I hated some kids. And through this hatred Flo and I bonded. Many a weekend were spent at his place passing time harassing them. And nothing passes the time like pushing *67 and prank calling your sworn enemies.
The guy we hated the most was in drama and his shit just did NOT stink. His mom was a doctor and he was that rich kid who had it all and really, he deserved to flaunt that fact. He’d say things like, “Well maybe your parents should have been doctors!”
His name was Jeremy and he had bit that gay twang in his voice. We’d call him and say “Who is this?”
“He’d say, “Jeremy, duh. You called me.”
I’d try and put the same twang in my voice and say, “You can’t be Jeremy! I’m Jeremy! Do you suck dick? No, I suck dick—so I’m Jeremy.”
Our crowning achievement in messing with that dude was calling all the video stores to cancel his accounts (with the same gayish voice the whole time).
DRUNK
He turned 25 (I think) in Phoenix whilst on a college related trip. Across from our Hotel was a styling little bar called The Metro.
The drink he was digging on the most at the time is known as an “Audios Mother Fucker,” one of those girly blue drinks with tons of alcohol that tastes no stronger than juice.
We walked around the Metro chugging those girly drinks like it were ladies night and we were ladies. When that drunken hunger took us, we got some directions to a Denny’s supposedly in walking distance.
Three blocks later with nothing but darkened streets surrounding us, we decided the Grand Slam Breakfast probably wasn’t worth getting stabbed over—so we headed back.
Just in time to discover a van full of ten or so of our fellow students driving off to get a midnight meal—so we jumped in. Now keep in mind we were the only ones drunk and the only ones not Mormon.
Our conversation at the shared dinner table went about like this:
“Did you see that chicks tits at the bar?”
“They were fucking huge!”
“Fuck! I fuckin’ know! Man, titty fucking is cool.”
“Hahaha—even Jesus would have jizzed his holy seed all over those!”
We’re lucky we didn’t end up walking back to hotel.
FLOGGING MOLLY
Flo’s favorite band is Flogging Molly. We go to Vegas to see them play now and then. One such trip we met the drummer, George, wandering around the casino. Flo introduced himself and told him how he had flown out to Dublin, Ohio last summer to see them play.
During the concert the lead singer Dave King paused between songs and said, “Where are those two bastards who flew in from Ohio!”
Of course, the whole crowd was going crazy so he couldn’t see us jumping up and down, waving our arms and George must have been drunk or stoned as he confused the details—but it’s a moot point. We got a song dedicated to us by one of the best current day punk bands in the fuckin’ world! And that will for ever kick ass.
So today’s the day! Happy birthday Flo. I’m privileged to count you as one my best friends. And thanks for helping me get rid of that body. That was the last time and this time I mean it.
The best friend variety is a bit harder to come by. When I say best friend, I mean the kind of friend you can call because you need some help chopping up a body and getting rid of the various pieces of meat—no questions asked. At this point in my life, I’ve had friends come and go for all the little reasons people slip in out of our lives—distance, time, you get married and stop calling, but I’ve managed to keep a few true friends close.
Today my minions (you did know you’re all my minions . . . right? Sorry this is how you had to find out) I’d like to acknowledge one such friend on today, his birthday—a man I call Flo.
“A man named, Flo? That’s kind of weird!” You might be saying. Normally I retort by snarling something snide—but I’m way too drunk, so this time I’m just hurling an empty whiskey bottle at your back-talking face.
His real name is Erik, and the story of why he is nicknamed Flo isn’t that cool—basically it’s an evolved and shorted version of a name someone else was signing on a crude drawing someone drew in middle school art class.
And that’s the shitty thing about nicknames—you’re not allowed to pick your own.
We called him Flo all through high school, and the nickname had almost gone away much to his delight when he joined me at college. While showing him around and introducing him to the professors, I called him “Flo.”
One of the professors instantly liked it, and eventually the entire department, students and facality took to calling him Flo like crack in a ghetto.
In celebration of his birthday, I’d like to recount just a few of our adventures that won’t result in him getting a divorce.
PRANK CALLS
Generally speaking, prank calls are just funny.
Once, we called a local restaurant at 11pm and explained to the manager our friend who was due at the air port in an hour had snuck out on us. He loved their restaurant, and we suspected he was there. We told him our friend went by “Stinky.” We didn’t know what he was wearing or who he was with but we desperately needed to know if he was there.
After he went table to table asking “Is your name Stinky?” he told us no one was there going by that name.
We asked if there was one last thing he could do for us?
“What’s that?”
“Could I roger you in the bum?”
I don’t know why we thought that phrase was so funny—but we did, and that’s usually how ended the call. I’m chuckling now in fact.
In high school, I hated some kids. And through this hatred Flo and I bonded. Many a weekend were spent at his place passing time harassing them. And nothing passes the time like pushing *67 and prank calling your sworn enemies.
The guy we hated the most was in drama and his shit just did NOT stink. His mom was a doctor and he was that rich kid who had it all and really, he deserved to flaunt that fact. He’d say things like, “Well maybe your parents should have been doctors!”
His name was Jeremy and he had bit that gay twang in his voice. We’d call him and say “Who is this?”
“He’d say, “Jeremy, duh. You called me.”
I’d try and put the same twang in my voice and say, “You can’t be Jeremy! I’m Jeremy! Do you suck dick? No, I suck dick—so I’m Jeremy.”
Our crowning achievement in messing with that dude was calling all the video stores to cancel his accounts (with the same gayish voice the whole time).
DRUNK
He turned 25 (I think) in Phoenix whilst on a college related trip. Across from our Hotel was a styling little bar called The Metro.
The drink he was digging on the most at the time is known as an “Audios Mother Fucker,” one of those girly blue drinks with tons of alcohol that tastes no stronger than juice.
We walked around the Metro chugging those girly drinks like it were ladies night and we were ladies. When that drunken hunger took us, we got some directions to a Denny’s supposedly in walking distance.
Three blocks later with nothing but darkened streets surrounding us, we decided the Grand Slam Breakfast probably wasn’t worth getting stabbed over—so we headed back.
Just in time to discover a van full of ten or so of our fellow students driving off to get a midnight meal—so we jumped in. Now keep in mind we were the only ones drunk and the only ones not Mormon.
Our conversation at the shared dinner table went about like this:
“Did you see that chicks tits at the bar?”
“They were fucking huge!”
“Fuck! I fuckin’ know! Man, titty fucking is cool.”
“Hahaha—even Jesus would have jizzed his holy seed all over those!”
We’re lucky we didn’t end up walking back to hotel.
FLOGGING MOLLY
Flo’s favorite band is Flogging Molly. We go to Vegas to see them play now and then. One such trip we met the drummer, George, wandering around the casino. Flo introduced himself and told him how he had flown out to Dublin, Ohio last summer to see them play.
During the concert the lead singer Dave King paused between songs and said, “Where are those two bastards who flew in from Ohio!”
Of course, the whole crowd was going crazy so he couldn’t see us jumping up and down, waving our arms and George must have been drunk or stoned as he confused the details—but it’s a moot point. We got a song dedicated to us by one of the best current day punk bands in the fuckin’ world! And that will for ever kick ass.
So today’s the day! Happy birthday Flo. I’m privileged to count you as one my best friends. And thanks for helping me get rid of that body. That was the last time and this time I mean it.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
PolygaPISSED!
My corner of the country is close to the heart of what we fondly call “Plyg Country.” The Fundamentalist Ladder Day Saints, or less specifically polygamists, are mere miles from my own fine city. What this means for me and the community is we get to deal with them regularly. They shop here. They work here. They look for new wives here.
You’re thinking, “O’ Bastard— you are funny!”
Shut up, baby—I know.
Seriously though, they are always looking for women. Not so with the men. They have plenty of men you see—so much so that it’s not uncommon to drop off boys where ever with nothing but the clothes on their back.
So, young teen girls who have no sexual knowledge are the hot commodity. Apparently, having as many wives as you can isn’t being greedy—it’s the Plan—as in The Lord’s. So what if you’re 16 and he’s 50? Once you’re married, you are his and you are the lowest rung on a totem pole.
Given the catty nature women can get around each other, I can only imagine the kind of hell it would be to be the new pretty wife, when the head witch, er wife, is getting less desirable with each passing day—with no make up or push up bras to help things along.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for personal choice and I loathe censorship or any sort of institution promoting the idea that there is but a single way to live your life, but this isn’t adult women choosing their husbands. This is 16 year old girls and younger who have grown up on an isolated compound that promotes sexual ignorance—marrying men someone else picked out for them.
Thus the fevered call from the Texas compound that sparked the removal 400 childeren from the compound. “But Bastard, you’re in Utah and that’s in Texas,” you may want to point out. It’s the same sect—when the State gets involved and begins investigating cases, they move the people (usually women crying out for help) to the next state and avoid the heat.
Here’s are some local factoids about polygamists you all might not know.
1. Screw You and you Taxes. If you are brave enough to drive through their town (make sure you have a full tank and you bring your own snacks—they will NOT provide any service to you) you’ll notice a bare wall on all of their houses. They do this because you don’t have to pay taxes on unfinished houses.
2. Slave labor. The boys they decide to keep around are often found jobs in construction. Their paychecks all go in their father’s pocket. As construction goes down, the number of abandoned boys goes up—what would a young man do with a young woman anyways? More for grandpa, sonny! Good luck out there! Try not to get stabbed!
3. Dead babies. Given the statistical probability of having a child with a birth defect, coupled with the inevitability of a level of inbreeding due to a limited gene pool, there should be some “special” kids running around. There are none. None surviving I mean.
(Also along the lines of the gene pool thing—you can spot a polygamist by their facial features alone. They have a look about them.)
4. Unfriendly. If you see a polygamist in town, say at the grocery store, you can smile, wave, say hi all you want—they will not respond. We are NOT part of their cult you see. Clearly, I’m the enemy. What bugs me the most though is you’ll see them everywhere shopping.
Once, my kid said hi to one of their kids. He made the mistake of giving a little wave, earning him a quick smack to the back of his head--which in turn made my child feel responsible and guilty. The poor kid was instantly sad and resumed his staring contest with the ground. I resent having to spend half an hour explaining away what just happened.
5. No Threesomes/Lesbian Action. Seriously, why have multiple women in one relationship if they can’t get down too? Two tongues are better than one! It just seems like a missed opportunity. Maybe on his birthday he lines all his wives up in a row and he moves down the line, penetrating them, once for each year--and she better like it, because this is also all she'll be getting for her birthday!
I have to assume there’s some level donut bumping going on behind the scenes when Mr. Viagra is too tired from making his sons work all day and trading daughters with his neighbors.
You’re thinking, “O’ Bastard— you are funny!”
Shut up, baby—I know.
Seriously though, they are always looking for women. Not so with the men. They have plenty of men you see—so much so that it’s not uncommon to drop off boys where ever with nothing but the clothes on their back.
So, young teen girls who have no sexual knowledge are the hot commodity. Apparently, having as many wives as you can isn’t being greedy—it’s the Plan—as in The Lord’s. So what if you’re 16 and he’s 50? Once you’re married, you are his and you are the lowest rung on a totem pole.
Given the catty nature women can get around each other, I can only imagine the kind of hell it would be to be the new pretty wife, when the head witch, er wife, is getting less desirable with each passing day—with no make up or push up bras to help things along.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for personal choice and I loathe censorship or any sort of institution promoting the idea that there is but a single way to live your life, but this isn’t adult women choosing their husbands. This is 16 year old girls and younger who have grown up on an isolated compound that promotes sexual ignorance—marrying men someone else picked out for them.
Thus the fevered call from the Texas compound that sparked the removal 400 childeren from the compound. “But Bastard, you’re in Utah and that’s in Texas,” you may want to point out. It’s the same sect—when the State gets involved and begins investigating cases, they move the people (usually women crying out for help) to the next state and avoid the heat.
Here’s are some local factoids about polygamists you all might not know.
1. Screw You and you Taxes. If you are brave enough to drive through their town (make sure you have a full tank and you bring your own snacks—they will NOT provide any service to you) you’ll notice a bare wall on all of their houses. They do this because you don’t have to pay taxes on unfinished houses.
2. Slave labor. The boys they decide to keep around are often found jobs in construction. Their paychecks all go in their father’s pocket. As construction goes down, the number of abandoned boys goes up—what would a young man do with a young woman anyways? More for grandpa, sonny! Good luck out there! Try not to get stabbed!
3. Dead babies. Given the statistical probability of having a child with a birth defect, coupled with the inevitability of a level of inbreeding due to a limited gene pool, there should be some “special” kids running around. There are none. None surviving I mean.
(Also along the lines of the gene pool thing—you can spot a polygamist by their facial features alone. They have a look about them.)
4. Unfriendly. If you see a polygamist in town, say at the grocery store, you can smile, wave, say hi all you want—they will not respond. We are NOT part of their cult you see. Clearly, I’m the enemy. What bugs me the most though is you’ll see them everywhere shopping.
Once, my kid said hi to one of their kids. He made the mistake of giving a little wave, earning him a quick smack to the back of his head--which in turn made my child feel responsible and guilty. The poor kid was instantly sad and resumed his staring contest with the ground. I resent having to spend half an hour explaining away what just happened.
5. No Threesomes/Lesbian Action. Seriously, why have multiple women in one relationship if they can’t get down too? Two tongues are better than one! It just seems like a missed opportunity. Maybe on his birthday he lines all his wives up in a row and he moves down the line, penetrating them, once for each year--and she better like it, because this is also all she'll be getting for her birthday!
I have to assume there’s some level donut bumping going on behind the scenes when Mr. Viagra is too tired from making his sons work all day and trading daughters with his neighbors.
Monday, April 7, 2008
This One's For the Lord
The few friends I have usually call and announce they are minutes away. This isn’t because my hatred for the “pop in” visit is fierce enough to be common knowledge, it’s because they know there’s a chance I’ve managed to get Mrs. Bastard all drunk and uninhibited. So when the doorbell rang this Saturday afternoon, I was instantly suspicious.
A man with shaved head and one pale useless eye cocked to the outer corner while the other was a cool shade of blue, looked steadily back at me as I opened the door. He was dressed for church in a long sleeved collared shirt and a simple tie. He held a bible and some magazines.
Behind him my small dog Ellie, a Pomeranian/terrier mix, what I call a mutt, ran excitedly behind a woman holding a baby on one hip and while her other hand rested on a small boy. Ellie held a rare quality for a small dog that made her a tolerable pet—she wasn’t barky.
"We're sharing a bible verse today." He told me. I kept eye contact, thinking, "Oh good. Just what I wanted to do. Shoo a man, his family and the Lord off my doorstep."
My dog hops up on her hind legs when she's excited, and few things excite the lil bitch like people, so she was all but bouncing in front of the lady holding her baby. By her was an empty stroller and I wondered how many hours she had committed to do knock on doors and smile pretty, silently and obediently supporting her master—I mean husband.
"Have you ever thought about the power one man giving his life . . ." he kept talking, but my three year old son ran past me and to the outside foyer where the man’s family had spread out. My own stopped right in front of the man’s son, looking eye to eye, they were the same height exactly. He was in a little button up church outfit. My son was in a plain blue t-shirt and denim shorts--much more Saturday in my mind.
They exchanged greetings.
"Hi!"
"Hi."
"Wanna play m'toys?" My son asked.
His son looked shyly at the ground and nodded yes. My son ran back inside making the "follow me" gesture over his shoulder. His son tried to run past his talking father but was thwarted as his dad blocked the advance by palming his son's skull like a hat and gently pulling him away from my house. He did this without missing a beat as he read from his bible.
I was instantly resentful of this one eyed man going door to door looking for fresh recruits. Before our very eyes our sons had demonstrated how simple getting along could be. But here he was, in my face and at the threshold of my home insisting we talk about religion.
Religion being one of those topics most of us have emotions around. You can't really have a discussion about those kinds of topics, there are just too many nerves you end up raking over.
I live in Southern Utah--I admitted that up front so don't get all weird about it now. Mormons are goddamn everywhere, and I am very used to having neighbors call "The Church" and sending missionaries come knock on my door, you know, just incase I somehow got lost in the shuffle. I'm pretty good at sending 'em packing in a timely fashion.
If these well dressed cats were slinging the LDS version of The Lord this was a new tactic. I have to admit, I didn't quite know how to form the words explaining they had to get going, no offense or anything.
As I silently savored my adrenaline over the anticipation of the conversation I already resented having to have, my son sensed the tension. I looked back at my little guy as the bald man droned on in a voice dull and devoid of emotion. He was wondering if the other kid was going to come in.
I shook my head and he scampered off. I decided passive resistance was my best option. A man in front of his family has a lot on the line—god alone what might provoke a, “You do NOT talk like THAT in front of my FAMILY” kind of response.
Any conversation was a bad idea, especially since I was feeling less than receptive over the entire situation. I let him talk, his bible held open with his finger pointing at the scripture he was reading.
I kept looking at his wife, thinking her plain brown skirt was the kind my own wife would like. She wouldn't look at me. She would look my way putting me in the field of her peripheral vision, but never a direct look.
He finished reading and explained he was sure I'd heard of the magazines he was holding. I didn't look away from his one staring eye. "Nope."
"Would you like these copies? They're free--"
"That's alright."
"Well, they would appeal to any Christian minded person. There's a lot of good stuff." He held them up near his face, insisting I see them.
I said nothing and noticed it was an incredibly nice day. People are generally uncomfortable with silence. I weather it by spacing off.
"Ok." He broke the stare, and stepped back. Like a school of fish changing direction, he and his mute family turned and retreated away from my house. "Have a nice day."
As I wondered over what it must be like to go trick or treating for followers of the Lord, I almost said something back. Something vaguely encouraging like “Good luck out there,” or “May the Dark Unlord Guide thy Shadow,” but instead I shut the door. And locked it.
A man with shaved head and one pale useless eye cocked to the outer corner while the other was a cool shade of blue, looked steadily back at me as I opened the door. He was dressed for church in a long sleeved collared shirt and a simple tie. He held a bible and some magazines.
Behind him my small dog Ellie, a Pomeranian/terrier mix, what I call a mutt, ran excitedly behind a woman holding a baby on one hip and while her other hand rested on a small boy. Ellie held a rare quality for a small dog that made her a tolerable pet—she wasn’t barky.
"We're sharing a bible verse today." He told me. I kept eye contact, thinking, "Oh good. Just what I wanted to do. Shoo a man, his family and the Lord off my doorstep."
My dog hops up on her hind legs when she's excited, and few things excite the lil bitch like people, so she was all but bouncing in front of the lady holding her baby. By her was an empty stroller and I wondered how many hours she had committed to do knock on doors and smile pretty, silently and obediently supporting her master—I mean husband.
"Have you ever thought about the power one man giving his life . . ." he kept talking, but my three year old son ran past me and to the outside foyer where the man’s family had spread out. My own stopped right in front of the man’s son, looking eye to eye, they were the same height exactly. He was in a little button up church outfit. My son was in a plain blue t-shirt and denim shorts--much more Saturday in my mind.
They exchanged greetings.
"Hi!"
"Hi."
"Wanna play m'toys?" My son asked.
His son looked shyly at the ground and nodded yes. My son ran back inside making the "follow me" gesture over his shoulder. His son tried to run past his talking father but was thwarted as his dad blocked the advance by palming his son's skull like a hat and gently pulling him away from my house. He did this without missing a beat as he read from his bible.
I was instantly resentful of this one eyed man going door to door looking for fresh recruits. Before our very eyes our sons had demonstrated how simple getting along could be. But here he was, in my face and at the threshold of my home insisting we talk about religion.
Religion being one of those topics most of us have emotions around. You can't really have a discussion about those kinds of topics, there are just too many nerves you end up raking over.
I live in Southern Utah--I admitted that up front so don't get all weird about it now. Mormons are goddamn everywhere, and I am very used to having neighbors call "The Church" and sending missionaries come knock on my door, you know, just incase I somehow got lost in the shuffle. I'm pretty good at sending 'em packing in a timely fashion.
If these well dressed cats were slinging the LDS version of The Lord this was a new tactic. I have to admit, I didn't quite know how to form the words explaining they had to get going, no offense or anything.
As I silently savored my adrenaline over the anticipation of the conversation I already resented having to have, my son sensed the tension. I looked back at my little guy as the bald man droned on in a voice dull and devoid of emotion. He was wondering if the other kid was going to come in.
I shook my head and he scampered off. I decided passive resistance was my best option. A man in front of his family has a lot on the line—god alone what might provoke a, “You do NOT talk like THAT in front of my FAMILY” kind of response.
Any conversation was a bad idea, especially since I was feeling less than receptive over the entire situation. I let him talk, his bible held open with his finger pointing at the scripture he was reading.
I kept looking at his wife, thinking her plain brown skirt was the kind my own wife would like. She wouldn't look at me. She would look my way putting me in the field of her peripheral vision, but never a direct look.
He finished reading and explained he was sure I'd heard of the magazines he was holding. I didn't look away from his one staring eye. "Nope."
"Would you like these copies? They're free--"
"That's alright."
"Well, they would appeal to any Christian minded person. There's a lot of good stuff." He held them up near his face, insisting I see them.
I said nothing and noticed it was an incredibly nice day. People are generally uncomfortable with silence. I weather it by spacing off.
"Ok." He broke the stare, and stepped back. Like a school of fish changing direction, he and his mute family turned and retreated away from my house. "Have a nice day."
As I wondered over what it must be like to go trick or treating for followers of the Lord, I almost said something back. Something vaguely encouraging like “Good luck out there,” or “May the Dark Unlord Guide thy Shadow,” but instead I shut the door. And locked it.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Dude in a Truck
I live in an expanding area known collectively as Southern Utah, which is basically a couple of cities in the south west corner of the state. My own town is a smallish city surrounded by little cities. All you need to do is cross the street and tada! You’re in a new city, you know, technically.
The redneck community here is huge; mostly because they’re protected by the predominant religious group (and vice versa). I think they’re called Mormons or something.
One of the consequences of this fine social arrangement--big trucks everywhere. I don’t mean fun, sporty off-road trucks, I mean in order to get a truck bigger than the ones you see all around town, you would have take a class and get your drivers license updated. These trucks guzzle the diesel fuel and have hoods that are eye level and wheels small children can hide behind without ducking.
“What’s the big deal, Bastard? Nothing wrong with a truck, right?”
To which I respond, “SHUT UP! QUIT QUESTIONING ME AT EVERY TURN!”
But, after the rage fades back from my red filled vision, I’d help you back up, lend you a handkerchief for your freshly bloodied nose and point out it’s one thing to have a lifestyle that demands you have a vehicle of that sort—boats to get to the lake, ATV’s to transport, large quantities of uncut coke to smuggle, etc—but it’s another thing entirely to have a truck just for truck’s sake.
Most of these guys, though, they don’t have that kind of lifestyle. These guys don’t even understand why everyone is forever asking for them to help people move—you’d probably scratch the paint!
We call them “Dudes in a truck,” (to be said like you were Samuel L. Jackson talking about Snakes on a muffuggin’ Plane) and we make fun of their penis size--clearly they're huge. They really are everywhere.
You can hear these diesel fueled beasts humming at every red light. One such evening found me first in line at a red light, and to my right at the line with me was a Dude in a Truck.
I was driving my Caddy—the ’88 Eldorado kind, and I was toying with the idea of provoking the Dude. All it would take to utilize the eight cylinders under my hood was a heavy foot on accelerate once the light turned. Dudes in Trucks can not tolerate lesser vehicles taking on airs or acting better in any way shape or form.
I decided there was no point to it. I take limited enjoyment in provoking the reaction I postulated would occur, but Dudes in a Truck aren’t that hard to predict, so really, it’s not that challenging kind of fun, so I dismissed the idea.
Until I looked in my rear view and saw the telltale silloette of hood lights atop of a cop car two cars behind me.
The light turned and I hit the gas. I got up to the legal speed limit—35mph, before I was even across the intersection. The Dude took notice and responded in kind. After I got up to speed though, I eased off the accelerator and the Dude and his Truck flew by me, his roaring diesel engine all but shouting “OUT OF THE WAY, ME AND MY HUGE COCK HAVE THREE PARKING SPOTS TO GO PARK IN!”
Seconds later the cop bolted past me, lights flashing.
I laughed the whole way home. It took a few minutes to compose myself and explain my split side to Mrs. Bastard. Granted, the cop who pulled The Dude in a Truck over was probably his second cousin or a church mate of some kind. But even if he didn’t get a ticket—it feels like a victory, and that’s how I score it.
The redneck community here is huge; mostly because they’re protected by the predominant religious group (and vice versa). I think they’re called Mormons or something.
One of the consequences of this fine social arrangement--big trucks everywhere. I don’t mean fun, sporty off-road trucks, I mean in order to get a truck bigger than the ones you see all around town, you would have take a class and get your drivers license updated. These trucks guzzle the diesel fuel and have hoods that are eye level and wheels small children can hide behind without ducking.
“What’s the big deal, Bastard? Nothing wrong with a truck, right?”
To which I respond, “SHUT UP! QUIT QUESTIONING ME AT EVERY TURN!”
But, after the rage fades back from my red filled vision, I’d help you back up, lend you a handkerchief for your freshly bloodied nose and point out it’s one thing to have a lifestyle that demands you have a vehicle of that sort—boats to get to the lake, ATV’s to transport, large quantities of uncut coke to smuggle, etc—but it’s another thing entirely to have a truck just for truck’s sake.
Most of these guys, though, they don’t have that kind of lifestyle. These guys don’t even understand why everyone is forever asking for them to help people move—you’d probably scratch the paint!
We call them “Dudes in a truck,” (to be said like you were Samuel L. Jackson talking about Snakes on a muffuggin’ Plane) and we make fun of their penis size--clearly they're huge. They really are everywhere.
You can hear these diesel fueled beasts humming at every red light. One such evening found me first in line at a red light, and to my right at the line with me was a Dude in a Truck.
I was driving my Caddy—the ’88 Eldorado kind, and I was toying with the idea of provoking the Dude. All it would take to utilize the eight cylinders under my hood was a heavy foot on accelerate once the light turned. Dudes in Trucks can not tolerate lesser vehicles taking on airs or acting better in any way shape or form.
I decided there was no point to it. I take limited enjoyment in provoking the reaction I postulated would occur, but Dudes in a Truck aren’t that hard to predict, so really, it’s not that challenging kind of fun, so I dismissed the idea.
Until I looked in my rear view and saw the telltale silloette of hood lights atop of a cop car two cars behind me.
The light turned and I hit the gas. I got up to the legal speed limit—35mph, before I was even across the intersection. The Dude took notice and responded in kind. After I got up to speed though, I eased off the accelerator and the Dude and his Truck flew by me, his roaring diesel engine all but shouting “OUT OF THE WAY, ME AND MY HUGE COCK HAVE THREE PARKING SPOTS TO GO PARK IN!”
Seconds later the cop bolted past me, lights flashing.
I laughed the whole way home. It took a few minutes to compose myself and explain my split side to Mrs. Bastard. Granted, the cop who pulled The Dude in a Truck over was probably his second cousin or a church mate of some kind. But even if he didn’t get a ticket—it feels like a victory, and that’s how I score it.
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