Is There Anything More Patriotic Than Being a Criminal?

My route to work skirts a rocky foothill. The road isn’t right along the base, but up and around the middle. To left is some hill covered in black lava rock, to the right is a down slope and a few connecting roads. Driving to work, I passed one of the hills and saw a cop, perched and hidden by the angle of the slope. It gave him bull’s eye aim with his trusty radar gun.

Not a big deal to me—I like to speed, but only when it’s appropriate. Say on a five hour trip where some choice speeding can shave off half an hour of drive time. The day in question though; I was driving to work. Needless to say, I was in no hurry.

The word “police” means to protect the peace, which got me wondering what the fuck a speeding ticket has to do with keeping society’s peace. Which got me thinking further; what does most of the shit you can get a ticket for have to do with the protection of peace?

I like to check my local booking’s page. Sometimes I’m looking for people I know, sometimes I just want to see who’s having a worse day than myself. Listed with the images are the arrestable indiscretions are the charges and fines. Sometimes it’s hundreds, sometimes it’s in the ten’s of thousands.

I had speeding ticket I let lapse. It was $87, but after I didn’t pay it within the allotted time; a warrant was issued. If I had gotten pulled over for whatever reason, I would have gone to jail, at which point many more fees would have been tacked on. Lucky for me, I paid the ticket before I encountered a cop.

No other institution can legally kidnap you until you pay the pre-determined ransom.

Let me just say—I don’t like cops but I don’t hate them either. I don’t think anyone should be hated for their job—not cops, hookers, even politicians. I am suspicious of the underlying desire to want to become a cop though. Not all cops, but the cops who are so straight laced they tend to hate any deviance of the law enough that they want to directly go out and cuff them. Developmentaly, black and white thinking is found in eight year olds, and is followed by the ability to have absract thought.

Considering all the fines levied against citizens, I can’t help but see the underlying function of cops not as protectors but as glorified hall monitors who’s main purpose is to generate income by catching rule breakers who are breaking some pretty arbitrary laws.

It’s a $45 ticket if you choose not to wear a seatbelt. Is it dumb not to buckle up? Only if you consider the laws of physics and energy distribution when high speeds suddenly become no speed. Is it because the state has a genuine concern for it’s citizens? I’d say that’s hard to argue in Utah, where you can ride your motorcycle without a helmet.

Also; cop’s in this state get an amount added to their pension per seatbelt ticket—I think it’s $12, I’m not sure though. There are probably other pension stuffing tickets, but the seatbelt fine is the only one I know of.

The last ticket I got, the cop told me to slow it down, to which I replied, “Then what would you do all day?”

“Have a nice day,” was all he said.

Really though, if everyone stopped breaking our laws and no one got arrested—it would be horrible for the state and it’s budget. States would go bankrupt within a month. Criminals are paying into a large chunk of state income. Criminals are patriots and they have the reciepts to prove it.

Honestly, I think if crime just stopped we would see our laws tighten up. More of our daily lives would be monitored and fined. I suspect we’re only a few years off from thought-crimes.

Most times, I’m an admitted pessimist. But I think the difference between pessimism and optimism is how often one likes to be right.

So be a patriot! Commit a crime (and get caught).

God of What?

WAR mother fucker. As in the video game. No, I’m not turning this into a video game blog; but I am talking about games today. Piss me off though and I’ll go fan boy so fast on you jerks. . . .

My freshly acquired copy of God of War: Chains of Olympus (never mind how) has been all I’ve been playing on my PSP, or Portable Playstation for you less in The Know—Sony’s version of the Gameboy for those of in complete boycott of The Know. We also call it a potty-station.

I grew up along side video games, starting with an Atari, eventually a NES and so on up the ladder. They were like siblings except they weren’t annoying and demanded nothing in return for the countless hours of joy they imparted. So, nothing like sibling. I guess they were more like the booty call you can make day or night, sober or drunk.

Would I have loved them less with more attentive, involved parents than the alcoholics that raised me? Who cares! Video games rock. If anything, I’m thankful for what I’ll just call an alternative childhood that let me spend as many hours as I wanted playing video games.

My interest waned when I started college. There were games out that I knew I should be drooling over—but I just wasn’t. I never stopped playing, but I wasn’t buying more than three of four games year.My interest has been slowly regaining steam, and I’m getting excited about playing fun games again. If I could stop time for a month I think I could get through much of the days playing catch up with games (I’d split my time with reading).

Back to God of War—if you like this franchise and you don’t have a PSP—sucks to be you! This game fucking rocks. I haven’t beaten it yet, but I will. Which is actually saying a lot as I tend to beat games eventually. Meaning, in the course of two years I’ll stop playing, switch games, and eventually come back and show the final boss I rule.

Something about the God of War games suck you in. When I finally got a copy of God of War (the first one) I remember being impressed with the intuitive control style—it was easy to pick up and it wasn’t long before I was doing all the attacks without really thinking them. The great boss fights, the blood and gore were a bonus, as were the naked chicks—Mrs. Bastard hadn’t seen video game tits before, so she was doubly happy.

That’s another thing about the series; people are entertained by simply watching you play—my wife bought the sequel for me for just this reason. Though, most my friends, including my wife, are the kind of gamer who will admit what you are playing looks fun but will refuse to even try it.

The story is a good one, and for a video game it’s a really good one. It helps propel you along through the game, so you’re killing endless bad guys with the quickness for a reason, not just to see tits.

One good quality all but losing interests in video games is I was able to step back and gain a sense of patience. Games that cost $40 today drop to $20 in a year. There are enough good games I’ve missed that I have a cushion, a bit of padding for both my tolerance for bad games (as they get weeded out by suckers) and my bank account.

Why I Beat My Wife When My Steak Isn't Medium Rare

I had ordered paper trays at work, four levels of planes for me to fan out my papers upon. They arrived with the office’s mass order, and as the secretary sifted through the box, she came upon the paper trays.

“Those are mine,” I told her.

She looked from me, to the paper trays and back to me. She was unsure about handing it to me. “I can’t tell if you’re serious,” she confessed.

Bingo-bango! I get this comment a lot (about being serious, not the bingo-bango thing). Making people laugh is easy for me; it provides the illusion that I get along with people. But my constant joking has that lingering effect. Really though, I’m avoiding having direct focus on myself. So believe it or not the topic this close me aren’t going to be terribly frequent—so savor this rare flavor.

I have to admit the paper tray scenario threw me off. “Haha—psych! No way those are mine, idiot!” I mean, I fuck with people, but not randomly enough to provoke the kind of paranoia that one should doubt I would have use of a common office item.

I get the “are you serious” look in bunches from the unfortunates new to the experience of having a certified Bastard in their life. This effect bleeds through to different aspects of my life, and now that I’m indulging in the self gratification of a blog, the question is being shot my way again.

Currently, the biggest concern is people are worried Mrs. Bastard has sobered up and is leaving me. Let me assure everyone, she’s addicted to at least three substances only I can provide—so she may stray but she aint going far.

Honestly though; she’s been my girl for 11+ years now. We’ve actually grown into one of those annoying happy couples who genuinely like each other. My poor wife is pretty much one my best friends—which makes a kind of sense, as it’s a short list that includes some of let’s say are “unique” individuals.

It was not instantly that way—we worked through a couple rough years to get here, which as near as I can tell is an unavoidable step. The great thing is we got married young. I was 18 and she was 16. Our births are separated by a year and a half. Oh, and she was pregnant with our love child.

So, there wasn’t anyone at our wedding with either of the following thoughts firing:

“These kids really have a chance!”

-or-

“This is a great idea.”

Regardless, my wife and I have watched with much glee as other lesser, higher ranked relationships festered and broke apart, withered and wilted in the dark misery that only two adults forcing a bad situation can produce.

Those couples who are staying together “for the kids,” are our favorites because there’s no way kids notice there parents are the most miserable when together, and really, an unhappy marriage a great reason to drink. I also admit there’s something about hearing how another baby is going fix everything--it just turns us on.

Here’s a few reasons why I think we made it whilst other couples—especially the very young couples, didn’t.

We grew together. My girl isn’t one to jump in and participate in all of my interests—but she loves hearing about them, or at least can fake it well enough that her questions sound more genuine that obligatory. So even as I went from ignoring sports to being a hardcore baseball fan (of the non­-fantasy league type), she’s been there. She accepted that she had to love the Dbacks and just went with it.

We both like sex. No two people I’ve met have the exact same sex drive, libido and kinky side. I think all of us have those aspects included in our sexual selves—and many more not mentioned, but me and Mrs. Bastard’s are pretty damn close, and if nothing else we’re definitely on the same page.

There are some mismatches though. I don’t like make up sex as soon as her, for example. The fight might be over but I need longer than average to cool down. She likes to be reassured all well; and for some reason doing it after a fight does that for her. Me, I’m more of a, “I unpacked my suitcase—quit kissing my neck!”

The big three. They say the most common reason for divorce fall into three major categories (and a zillion sub categories). They are—money, sex and religion. We agree and have similar beliefs about all three. In fact, we generally agree—what’s for dinner, should we beat the kids, what time should the Valentine’s hooker show up, that kind of crap.

There are more reasons; but really, how much of this can you people want to hear about. So just remember; jokes aside, Mrs. Bastard and I shouldn’t be anything to be concerned with. Go with it. Laugh. It’s ok. I’m really actually kinda nice to her.

Hitlerarios!

Once upon a time, there were no teenagers. And I don’t mean that in some weird literal interpretation of the bible sort of way. Before school was federally instituted and all those uncool child labor laws firmed up, there was no phase that allowed one to be no longer a child but not quite an adult.

Now that we have this transitional phase in the lifespan, it’s expanding. We call it “adolescence” and current studies are suggesting it’s not uncommon for it’s characteristics (I almost said qualities!) to persist into the early twenties.

My point isn’t about some of you needing to grow the fuck up—it’s about the undeniable social influence on pretty much all of our basic conditions and institutions. Homosexuality used to be listed among the diagnosable disorders in the DSMV. Not really because psychologist are evil (you can’t have a therapist without the-rapist!) but because there was a social demand for a reason for gay people to be documentably different.

Bare that in mind for what I’m about to propose, which is essentially creating our own mental disorder; the logic is a tad circular—but fun, so keep reading!

I have a friend who enjoys arguing. Not because he has firm beliefs in anything, but because he really likes to argue. In fact, I would dare say his arguing for argument’s sake is a dominant guiding force in his life. I suspect he served his 6+ years in the military (freaking stop loss! ) just so he could add the phrase, “Oh yeah? Well I was in the military, buddy!” to his arguments, as needed.

I’ve been this guy’s friend since about 8th grade, so I can share in the amusement, but I have noticed one of his tactics basically involves saying whatever he needs to frustrate and anger his opponent, be it man, woman, child, and wait then for them to say something stupid or illogical for him to rip into.

I’ve named this the “That sounds like something Hitler would have agreed with,” method of arguing, or the TSLSHWHAW Method. You can also use “…Hitler would say” if you’re not feeling chatty.

That’s what got my evil brain thinking—what if we ALL start making the comment, “That sounds like something Hitler would agree with” to people? I’m convinced we could start a whole new phobia!

Given the increasing level of paranoia and anxiety disorders, people are just waiting to be told what they’re scared of! Fuck terrorism, global warming and poverty fueled crime, that shit is trendy! How about the possibility you’re a Hitler!

Maybe the first time one get’s told their statement smacks of something Hitler would concur with, they can brush it off, but how about the second time? And a third? We all know people who can’t help but take passing comments to heart—and I’m just not talking about girlfriends and other estrogen rich species, so just imagine the impact seemingly random people casually comparing them to what many consider to be the anti-christ could be! It’s not just hilarious—it’s hitlerarious.

Soon enough, people with fists full of wadded up tissues will be shamefully whispering to their councilors, “I’m worried I’m a Hitler…” By 2012 I really think we could have a solid pressence and listed in the DSMV. I just want all future theses and drug treatments to remember—this is the BASTARD’S disorder, and should be named and cited accordingly.

So say it! “That sounds like something Hitler would agree with!” And often.

Oh, So Now I'm the Jerk!

I don’t know how long one has to be in a relationship before one becomes aware of the deal; or if living together for some length of time is a prerequisite, but there’s a long standing exchange between couples that you may or may not be aware of; a little trade off known as the blowjob for a backrub.

Not always in that order. In fact, I’d say usually not.

I fought this exchange for a long time in my own lengthy relationship, and have only recently accepted the terms as viable. I argued that no, it should be more of an ‘eye for an eye’ arrangement. I rub you back, you rub mine.

Now, not toot my own horn, but I give great back. Years of social neglect and video games have gifted me with stronger than average finger and hand strength. I’m pretty sure I could squeeze through your windpipe with my left hand. Oil, lotion or dry, my fingers weave the muscles of the back until they're as loose and rubbery as your girls fried chicken.

And, to further NOT toot my own horn, I can do a tongue push-up. If I leave you with shaking legs and you’re breathing like you just almost drowned and there are still bits of my hair from the back of my head clutched in your fists, and I have to bring you a drink because I’m scared you’ll injure yourself if you attempt an upright posture—really, I don't think you're thinking "Holy god as soon as I can walk I'm gonna rub the FUCK out of his back!"

It doesn’t matter; as I said I’ve surrendered to the exchange. And since there’s no real nice way to suggest your girl give a blowjob without her looking at you like you just asked if she were tighter than her sister, it does helps to be able to be all Ricco Suave and ask in a whisper thick with manly bass; “Ya want a nice looong back rub, baby?”

I can see why the exchange occurs, even if it takes time, and why the two events are sort of comparable if you look at the underlying involvement of other things that go on; relaxation, unwinding, accepting pleasure without worrying about anytihng but feeling good, but the comparison isn’t literal.

For instance, Mrs. Bastard gets all sorts of pissed when I loudly spit on her back and rub like crazy. And there is no appreciation when I slap my face all over her back and tell her, "I love your fucking back, baby!"

And, you know, sometimes my hands hurt—my family had a long, proud tradition of both arthritis and bursitis before things like keyboards came along to help things along.

If I neglect my girls back too long, she can go get a professional massage—or maybe that’s just what she’s in the mood for, professional treatment. But the gods protect me if I start checking out prices for the Ladies of Craigslist—suddenly I’m the jerk. Seems like if it’s a fair exhange of services I shouldn’t have to explain my internet history—to you or to my lawyer!

I guess double standards, like equality, are a bitch.