Let me paint a picture for ya'. There's a skinny rock 'n' roll fuck-up sittin' outside a room in a federal courthouse, more than a little nervous, at 8:00 AM, figuratively resembling a dog walking comfortably on it's hind legs because he's wearing decent clothes and a tie. There's five chairs, each occupied by someone waiting to take care of their case.
And a line of roughly thirty-something people waiting to do the same.
We get called in at the same, time, cramming into a tiny court room designed for about half of the people who were actually in it. There's about six or seven defense attorneys standing, calling names and talking with their respective "clients". Eventually, the rocker gets called up, his heart skips a beat, and he makes his way to his own court appointed lawyer, expecting the worst.
Ten minutes later, he walks outta' the courtroom with a year's probation and a five hundred dollar fine.
This is what I've been stressin' about for the last six months? For fuck's sake, it would've taken longer to smoke the roaches I got caught with than it did to get all this taken care of! I was expecting a judge, a prosecutor, and a jail sentence. What I got was the equivalent of a drive-through justice window. Don't misread, I'm totally stoked that I essentially got off with a slap on the wrist, but is this really how they handle federal offenses? As a taxpayer I'm pissed, but as a guy who's not getting assraped, I'm elated.
So, essentially, as long as I can come up with the money to pay the fine, and I somehow manage not to do anything stupid for the next three hundred and sixty-five days, I'm in the clear.
God bless our indifferent justice system.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
It's curtains for you, Phoenix!
Well folks, this is it. By this time tomorrow, I'll either be lounging comfortably in my chair, still breathing the longest sigh of relief in history, or I'll be meeting my new cellmate. Put in a word with the man upstairs for me, eh? I don't wanna' be somebody's girlfriend.
After all, there's too much hair on my tits.
After all, there's too much hair on my tits.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Leave the driving to us!...but if a cannibal gets hungry, you're fucked.
Once upon a time, I took a Greyhound bus to Florida.
Shut the fuck up and let me finish!
Anyway, couple years back, hopped a Hound. No real rhyme or reason, pretty much the same situation as when I moved out here to Cali, only I didn't get busted for possession on federal property. Pretty straightforward process though, you walk into the station, you buy your ticket, and you look around at all the other social rejects with whom you're going to be sharing a cramped, poorly ventilated tin can on wheels with for the next day or two. I vaguely recall a few guidelines, no drinking, no smoking (great idea when you're in close quarters with people who're just as pissed off about their station in life as you are, by the way) but for the most part, there wasn't a whole lot of jargon regarding the rules and regulations attached to the experience.
Well, apparently Greyhound needs to either see about getting the rights to the name "Meals On Wheels", or throw in an addendum to the passenger conduct expectations about not eating your seatmeat. For those of you who live under a rock or just plain have no fucking clue what's going on outside of your apartment, a few days ago a Chinese man who'd immigrated to Canada was apparently so fed up with hearing "Eh?" at the end of every sentence that he took it into his mind to make his seatmate's innards his...well, outtards.
In case I lost you there, let me clarify. A Canadian. Was Killed. On a Greyhound.
Am I the only person who couldn't wait to hit up YouTube and see if someone caught some video of this shit? The guy was Canadian, for fuck's sake! What could he have possibly done? Gotten so drunk on piss beer that he spilled maple syrup on the murderer's leg and only apologize fourteen times instead of twenty? Folks, I've met Canadians. Granted, the first one I met was a little dim, evidenced by proclaiming that she originally hailed from "Canadia" (sorry Missy, but it needed to be said), but I've never had an argument with one.
While sober.
So this guy, Tim McLean, is just sitting in his seat, probably thinking about maple leaves or some such Canadian nonsense, everyone's watching Zorro which had me floored the first time I heard the story, and Lee Wong Stabbyface over here goes ballistic and starts chest-fucking the poor guy with a knife. Obviously everyone on the bus panics, the driver slams the brakes and everyone piles out like this fucker just turned into a coked up Godzilla. As if killing this guy isn't bad enough, dude cuts the victim's head off and holds it over his head like it's the Olympic gold medal in brutality, then decides to celebrate by eating McLean's various severed body parts.
Yeah, you heard me. He goes Michael Myers on the victim's chest, cuts his head off, starts choppin' other bits and pieces off and downs 'em like they're something he picked up at McDonalds.
Cops finally showed up and brought the guy down and hauled him off to what I hope was a private cell with an open vending machine, and the world is left with yet another astounding "What the fuck?" So, basically, we can't fly because of terrorists, we can't ride busses because of...what, diabetics?...we can't hitch, am I missing anything here? What's next, the BMX Sniper? The Kick-n-Go Strangler? Are we just supposed to chill in our own patches and pray to God nobody decides to paint a taxi's backseat with our brains? It's a fucked up world we live in, folks, and apparently it ain't gettin' any better.
Especially if you're in Coach.
Shut the fuck up and let me finish!
Anyway, couple years back, hopped a Hound. No real rhyme or reason, pretty much the same situation as when I moved out here to Cali, only I didn't get busted for possession on federal property. Pretty straightforward process though, you walk into the station, you buy your ticket, and you look around at all the other social rejects with whom you're going to be sharing a cramped, poorly ventilated tin can on wheels with for the next day or two. I vaguely recall a few guidelines, no drinking, no smoking (great idea when you're in close quarters with people who're just as pissed off about their station in life as you are, by the way) but for the most part, there wasn't a whole lot of jargon regarding the rules and regulations attached to the experience.
Well, apparently Greyhound needs to either see about getting the rights to the name "Meals On Wheels", or throw in an addendum to the passenger conduct expectations about not eating your seatmeat. For those of you who live under a rock or just plain have no fucking clue what's going on outside of your apartment, a few days ago a Chinese man who'd immigrated to Canada was apparently so fed up with hearing "Eh?" at the end of every sentence that he took it into his mind to make his seatmate's innards his...well, outtards.
In case I lost you there, let me clarify. A Canadian. Was Killed. On a Greyhound.
Am I the only person who couldn't wait to hit up YouTube and see if someone caught some video of this shit? The guy was Canadian, for fuck's sake! What could he have possibly done? Gotten so drunk on piss beer that he spilled maple syrup on the murderer's leg and only apologize fourteen times instead of twenty? Folks, I've met Canadians. Granted, the first one I met was a little dim, evidenced by proclaiming that she originally hailed from "Canadia" (sorry Missy, but it needed to be said), but I've never had an argument with one.
While sober.
So this guy, Tim McLean, is just sitting in his seat, probably thinking about maple leaves or some such Canadian nonsense, everyone's watching Zorro which had me floored the first time I heard the story, and Lee Wong Stabbyface over here goes ballistic and starts chest-fucking the poor guy with a knife. Obviously everyone on the bus panics, the driver slams the brakes and everyone piles out like this fucker just turned into a coked up Godzilla. As if killing this guy isn't bad enough, dude cuts the victim's head off and holds it over his head like it's the Olympic gold medal in brutality, then decides to celebrate by eating McLean's various severed body parts.
Yeah, you heard me. He goes Michael Myers on the victim's chest, cuts his head off, starts choppin' other bits and pieces off and downs 'em like they're something he picked up at McDonalds.
Cops finally showed up and brought the guy down and hauled him off to what I hope was a private cell with an open vending machine, and the world is left with yet another astounding "What the fuck?" So, basically, we can't fly because of terrorists, we can't ride busses because of...what, diabetics?...we can't hitch, am I missing anything here? What's next, the BMX Sniper? The Kick-n-Go Strangler? Are we just supposed to chill in our own patches and pray to God nobody decides to paint a taxi's backseat with our brains? It's a fucked up world we live in, folks, and apparently it ain't gettin' any better.
Especially if you're in Coach.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Matrimonial bliss my ass
Really, guys? Eight people married in the last three months? Really? Are you fucking serious? Look, I'm sure you're all lubed up about finding that special someone to spend the rest of your miserable, nine-to-five life with, but give me a fucking break! This shit is spreading faster than AIDS in Africa and I'm getting a little sick of hearing about it, so guess what? You get to read about me trashing what you're calling the greatest thing that ever happened to you, and what you'll probably call the biggest mistake of your life a year from now.
First of all, think about how many people there are in the world today. Hell, up the odds in your favor a bit and just think about how many people are in your fucking state. Are you honestly naive enough to think that you found the one person out of every example of the genetic AmTrak that takes place when a race is propagated from two people (or amoeba if you're an evolutionist, I don't really give a shit, somebody took their sister to prom at some point either way), you actually managed to find your so-called soulmate? Are you fucking kidding me? If you were so spiritually connected to one another, you wouldn't bitch at each other like one of you just got caught finger fucking the family dog every time the cable bill came in the mail. Shut the fuck up.
Second, life-long commitment, and don't give me that "people have been getting married for millenia" bullshit, either. Look, life-long commitment was all fine and dandy when the average human life expectancy was rivaled by the shelf life of a gallon of milk, but this the twenty-first century for fuck's sake! People live long enough to see their great-grandchildren fuck up just as bad as they did when they were kids, and you're telling me that you're going to share living space, a bed, financial burdens and bodily fluids for the rest of your life? Hey, here's an idea. Why don't you adopt a unicorn while you're at it, jackass?
Third, procreation. Yeah, that's right, pooling your wretched, polluted genetic data into one (or ten if you're Catholic) bundle of cliche joy that, despite it's deceptively unthreatening stature, is going to assrape you out of every spare cent you're ever going to make? I can't even manage to love one person, and you honestly think you're going to glide through putting up with two other people under your roof that you're legally obligated to devote yourself to without question or complaint? Which fucking truck did you fall off of, exactly, and what kind of mind-altering substance were you packed away with before you did?
Look, I've been to the movies, too. Y'know why they never show what happens after the charming, Hollywood-handsome male hooks up with the sweet, innocent, big-titted closet nymphomaniac female? Because it's all downhill from there, fucktard! Marriage isn't the solution to your problem. A six-pack, a magazine and a lock on your door is more cost-efficient, less stressful and a hell of a lot less soul-crushing than putting a ring on someone's finger ever will be.
And it doesn't bitch about curtains and wallpaper, either.
First of all, think about how many people there are in the world today. Hell, up the odds in your favor a bit and just think about how many people are in your fucking state. Are you honestly naive enough to think that you found the one person out of every example of the genetic AmTrak that takes place when a race is propagated from two people (or amoeba if you're an evolutionist, I don't really give a shit, somebody took their sister to prom at some point either way), you actually managed to find your so-called soulmate? Are you fucking kidding me? If you were so spiritually connected to one another, you wouldn't bitch at each other like one of you just got caught finger fucking the family dog every time the cable bill came in the mail. Shut the fuck up.
Second, life-long commitment, and don't give me that "people have been getting married for millenia" bullshit, either. Look, life-long commitment was all fine and dandy when the average human life expectancy was rivaled by the shelf life of a gallon of milk, but this the twenty-first century for fuck's sake! People live long enough to see their great-grandchildren fuck up just as bad as they did when they were kids, and you're telling me that you're going to share living space, a bed, financial burdens and bodily fluids for the rest of your life? Hey, here's an idea. Why don't you adopt a unicorn while you're at it, jackass?
Third, procreation. Yeah, that's right, pooling your wretched, polluted genetic data into one (or ten if you're Catholic) bundle of cliche joy that, despite it's deceptively unthreatening stature, is going to assrape you out of every spare cent you're ever going to make? I can't even manage to love one person, and you honestly think you're going to glide through putting up with two other people under your roof that you're legally obligated to devote yourself to without question or complaint? Which fucking truck did you fall off of, exactly, and what kind of mind-altering substance were you packed away with before you did?
Look, I've been to the movies, too. Y'know why they never show what happens after the charming, Hollywood-handsome male hooks up with the sweet, innocent, big-titted closet nymphomaniac female? Because it's all downhill from there, fucktard! Marriage isn't the solution to your problem. A six-pack, a magazine and a lock on your door is more cost-efficient, less stressful and a hell of a lot less soul-crushing than putting a ring on someone's finger ever will be.
And it doesn't bitch about curtains and wallpaper, either.
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