Half Past Awesome

A sinus rhythm is defined one way as the normal regular rhythm of the heart as generated by the sinus node. This is what you want to see in a patient when an EKG is performed- five healthy waves in a single heartbeat. But like each beat of the heart, life happens in these up and down waves that define our interactions with others.

I thought about this while I was enduring the cardiac event known as “training run” today. Currently at the end of week three in a twelve week cycle of sado-masochism, I’m attempting my first half marathon in December. Back story -the event is for St. Jude’s Childrens Research Hospital in Memphis, and I committed to it for a couple of reasons; on October 18 of 2007, the beautiful daughter of a coworker of mine passed away at three years old, the victim of a brain tumor. St. Jude’s was instrumental in helping the family, and I’ve been impressed with this organization since I first learned of it. Secondly, if I am gonna do more than just TALK about being in better heart health, there’s nothing like setting a seemingly impossible goal to guilt me into running.

While experiencing undoubtedly abnormal rhythms, my mind was wandering all over the place, focusing on the peaks and valleys that happen to us at this age. The craziness knows no limits: one classmate of mine is in jail for allegedly murdering his wife in the heat of a bitter custody battle, we have folks with marriages on the rocks or ending, The Lyin’ Dutchman has ostracized each and every member of his family (except Bones), The Wife broke one ankle and sprained the other two days ago just walking down our driveway; hell, I even went nuts to a minor degree this past spring, sold off the excavating business, lost my mind and took up yoga. On the plus side, Heathen #1 is rocking kindergarten, this site has been a fulfilling outlet for my creative impulses, RoJo welcomed a baby boy into this world, Lyrical Jackass is back with an old crazy flame, Dirtbag is busy building out in the northwest, JoBoo just got him a new Harley and my first tattoo is on the horizon.

And so it goes. These various waves in our lives give it spice, meaning, passion and heartbreak. When compared to asystole (also known as “flatline”), sinus rhythm is not such a bad option, even with all the valleys. Living a flat line life would be boring, repetitive, secure to the point of mad doldrums. I’m not advocating abandoning family nor commitments, but rather, learning to accept the valleys as just another point in my life’s rhythm. Caring for a temporarily crippled wife? That’s not too bad, especially when taken in the context of having a person in my life who is willing to even be seen with me. Mile 5 of the training run today? Well, there was nothing good to say about that one, save for that it’s about 4.75 miles further than I’ve run in nearly a decade.  As the knees were snapping, the sweat pouring down like a monsoon, and the feet protesting with each stumbled step, it actually brought a smile to my face. My shuffle might embarrass the hell out of me if I ever were to witness it, but least I’m out there, and not flat-lining here on the couch. I’ll never be a runner’s runner – I know this. To survive this thirteen mile race without congestive heart failure will be nothing short of a medical miracle. But I’ll take the unknown inconsistencies of this run, this life, over the alternatives any day.

I am trying something completely new here. I am going to attempt to build an entire essay around the picture you see to the right. I have no idea what to write about except for the fact that this fly lookin’ terrorist has apparently decided to let it all hang out. The man opted to camp in a tent while Stateside…..on Donald Trumps property. He was introduced to the General Assembly as the “king of kings”. He went on to ramble for an hour and a half about various topics unrelated to anything real or pertinent. Apparently he touched his beret several times (sort of in a “duck, duck, goose kind of way) during the rambling “speech” and fake-tore up a copy of the UN charter or some such thing.  Oh Gaddafi, you’re such a card. And, as such,  I thought I’d list all the reasons this picture alone shows the world why you, not Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, are the ultimate bad boy of  the Middle East.

1.) Snazzy Hair. Not too many people can pull of this look, at least not since the Jheri Curl of the 80′s disappeared from our national conscience. That just-woke-up-from-shagging-virgins look will become all the rage on the streets of Lybia. What’s not to trust about this homeless-inspired ‘do?

2.) Awesome Goatee-Like Thing. Dude, the Velcro appearance of your facial hair lends credence to the fact that you don’t take no mess. Perfectly, um, trimmed and yet reeking of the “I don’t give a shit” kind of vibe. I think Keanu Reeves tried this look in one, if not all, of his movies, but it didn’t work for him. It works for you, oh Exalted Pooh-bah, and I’m sure several minions had to die before you found the one who could perfectly trim the ‘stache.

3.) The Eyes. These are the eyes of a man who has been either a.) hating (with an unparalleled passion) Jewish people all his life or b.) violently raped by a goat at some point in his career. Either way, the haunting evil that comes out of those orbs of black onyx is, frankly, scaring the bejeezus out of me as I write this.

4.) The Clothing. That lame poser, Ahma-whats-his-name, insists on wearing nothing but boring gray suits and little attention to style when he goes about his business of instituting widespread fundamentalist terror. You, on the other hand are prone to bold and unconventional forays in fashion, be they the standard military outfit (but with panache!) or wild looking robes that you swish about when you take the stage.

5.) A Face Only A Mother Could Love. While most of your terrorist-types cover up their mugs when going on television, you proudly display what looks to be the results of a nasty fight with a rabid hyena. Wrinkles, sags, bags, pockmarks, you wear them with pride, as though daring your enemies to make a disparaging remark about your mug. Grotesque and usually framed by glasses that appear to have been stolen from the swag bag of an awards show, you look like the kind of guy who regularly scraps with fighting chickens “just to keep your edge”.

6.) The Attitude. After forty years of being in charge, you’ve ceased to give a crap what the rest of the world thinks about you. You’ve let yourself go, you’re unrepentant about your role in the Lockerbie bombing, and you don’t expect to have to wait when it comes to dining at your corner Applebees. You come across as a little pissed that no one HAS killed you yet, thereby delaying your rendezvous with the Vestal Virgins and cementing your status as “Most Glorious And Exalted Martyr.” Patience, oh insane one. I am sure that Trump put a bounty on your head the moment he found out that you were hosting a Bedouin Sexy Party at his place without inviting him. But then again, you don’t care.

To sum it up, you one crazy mo-fo, Muammar. I think the planet would be better off without you on it, but while you’re around, I give you props for keepin’ it real, Lybian style. My hope is that when it’s time for you to check out of this world (I know, I know, it can’t come soon enough for you), you do it with the same bold flavor that you bring to your wardrobe.

I’ve decided I need to join a cult. After reading about how the Church Of Scientology is having conniption fits over the actions of some internet trolls (read here), I was left feeling like a spiritual Switzerland, with no dog in the fight. Sure, the guys who are attacking the Scientologists are nothing more than a coterie of jerkwads and the Church Of Science Fiction is little more than a pyramid sham with Tom Cruise as their unofficial spokesman. Sure, we have churches here in the Ozarks that want a copy of your W-2 for tithing purposes, just as we have plenty of nice, humble little places of worship all over, available in the denomination of your choosing. But these options are just not fringe enough for me these days.

You ever notice the fiery passion that cultists have? The wild eyes, the insane zealotry, the madcap desire for worldwide evangelicism of their faith? The fact that theirs is always the “chosen” religion, that their leader is the one who has been called to guide us heathens out of the abyss of mankind? And that most of those same cult leaders will demand at some point that their followers kill themselves? You never hear about a former cult leader now living a normal life and employed at a car title loan establishment. Hell no, when these guys call it quits, it often times involves a hail of gunfire or a raging inferno. At a bare minimum, grape Kool Aid and/or a subway system plot is involved.

I envy their conviction. Yes, yes, I understand that envy is one of the Deadly Sins and all that, but when it comes to cult life, I’m sure that these become more like flexible parameters than steadfast rules. Sort of like the whole plural marriage concept, or the assertion that Jesus would vote Republican, there are certain spiritual speculations that cult leaders find themselves uniquely able to justify and propagate. I can’t even declare the way The Wife’s customers drive on my lawn a sin, so I could use a dose of evangelical charisma if there’s a chance of making it into an off-brand religion.

The Wife has a friend, and I’m going to call her “Consuela” to protect her anonymity here, who is also feeling a spiritual void. She has tried 97% of the churches in the area with little satisfaction and was left feeling like there’s something wrong with her being a 35 year old divorcee. Consuela, in her quest for fulfillment has recently attended a mega church in the area affectionately known as both “Six Flags Over Jesus” and “The Jesus Christ Supercenter” and left there more than once crying. She reportedly cried because she felt worse about herself after the services; a couple of dates with other single parishioners ended with them telling her she wasn’t “Christian enough”. Ouch. I told her that in order to get churchy enough for those boys, all she really needed was to join me in my quest for a cult. And thus we were two.

All that Consuela and I are lacking is the kind of wingnut religious movement that will satisfy my spiritual needs, and those needs are as follows:

1. That our brand of religion is a zero-sum game. If I’m gonna move to some forsaken hell-hole like New Guyana or Los Angeles, then I want assurances that THIS is the team that wins. WE win. And everyone else loses. Sorry Jews, Muslims, Buddhists and Scientologists; we win and you burn.

2. Harems. They were, apparently, quite popular in the Old Testament times;  if they were ok with The Big Man way back when, then I see no reason why there shouldn’t be a return of that venerable institution.

3. Spaceship rides. Most of your higher-grade cults promise you at least one ride to the cosmos on either the tail of a comet or some other groovy form of space travel. Of course, this usually only occurs after the suicide, so there are some sticking points we might need to iron out.

Buns as cult leader?

I think those needs are reasonably basic, and as long as we can find a charismatic lunatic in oversize Coke-bottle glasses to lead us, I’d venture that we’d make damn good cult followers. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I need to troll through several late night cable tv channels that are offering spiritual salvation in the form of big hair, big jewelry and big promises. And if you don’t hear from me, chances are that Consuela and I have found the cult of our dreams. At the very least, I hope the Kool Aid tastes good.

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I think there’s something that you and I have in common: a visceral loathing of punk ass kids. The beauty of that is the fact that at one time WE were the punks and our parents thought of us in much the same way. A bizarre rite of passage, the teen years are gangly, pimply, nasty growth periods in our lives when we manage to annoy just about everyone and think we have the world by the short ones. In truth, there’s never been more potential for you than at this time, and as a group, we are determined to squander that time in every possible way. God’s great practical joke – I am gonna give you the peak physical years of your life at a time when your only concerns are learning how to “like” beer, acting like horny trolls around the opposite sex and rejecting every single piece of advice anyone over 23 gives you. Although I’d like the physique and lack of body hair that I had at eighteen again, I wouldn’t trade anything to be plagued by the anxiety and insecurity that envelope you during those years.

So I thought I might make up a chart to compare and contrast those years versus how it was perceived by other generations. Let this be your guide.

It was a teaching moment, to be sure. I was standing near the exit of a local Target with my boys and talking to a friend when a very large woman whirred up to us in her “Jazzy”-style motorized wheelchair and motioned me out of the way. No please, no thank you, nothing but a little angry gesture. It was rude. It was entitled. It was, sadly enough, nothing unusual these days.

Within a moment, as she was buzzing out the doors, a young store manager and a younger security guard sprinted from the registers to her side and yanked her up out of her chair. Everyone turned and stared, being as how running in a department store can usually mean one thing: trouble. As she walked, perfectly capably, under her own power towards an unseen office with someone at each side, Heathen #1 asked “Daddy, why are they leading her away?” My knee-jerk thought process wanted to reply “Because she’s a fat, rude, entitled p.o.s. who manipulates a faked handicap into a distraction for her larcenous behavior.” But good sense took over and I told the boy that she was being taken to the back because she tried to steal from the store. The girl from the coffee counter confirmed my suspicions and said that that was not the first time this woman has done this. Apparently, it’s something of a habit.

All this got me to thinking about what’s going on these days when it comes to my least favorite characteristic in a person: entitlement. From Joe Wilson’s outburst, to Kanye and Serena’s wacky antics, apparently civility has been replaced by tantrum-esque outbursts from all corners. According to an article I was reading on ABC News, “‘There is an increasing coarseness to American discourse,’ columnist George Will said. He blamed our impulsivity and rudeness on a ‘culture of entitlement‘ where we celebrate ‘emotional exhibitionism’ on football fields, cable television, and the Internet.” I see this everywhere, from the Garfield the Cat sweatshirts on nasty methhead moms proclaiming “You want attitude?” to some of our patients insisting that we’re interrupting them in the middle of a reality show on tv, when THEY are the ones who called 911 in the first place.  In other circles, these are the people talking loudly on their cell phones in restaurants, those who park in fire lanes in front of the grocery store and recline their airline seats into my knees EVERY. DAMN. TIME. In general, these are the people who behave like the line-cutters you remember from your early school days.

Who teaches this kind of behavior? Why is it tolerated? What parent in their right mind allows their kids to wear sweat pants with “Juicy” written on the butt? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? I’m not advocating Puritanical behavior, but it sure would be nice if the person making my coffee didn’t roll their eyes at me the whole time, as though I am requesting major invasive surgery as opposed to a cup of  drip. I wish society would tolerate ME slapping that person and telling them to knock it off. On a related note I also wish I could choke people like Darth Vader did, just by making the choking motion in their general direction. THAT would be a righteous way to restore the balance of civility between mainstream society and me. At the very least I could make a significant impact on the apparent shoplifting epidemic at retail locations in the greater Springfield Metro area.

Until that time, I remain suspicious of people in motorized wheelchairs. But to be fair, I’m reasonably suspicious of everyone, especially anyone wearing Garfield sweatshirts.

For the last five months, I’ve endeavored to bring you glimpses of my convoluted thought process and the subsequent chaotic results. This is not an issue of happenstance; I had recently sold off my excavating business in order to spend some much needed time with my family and to pursue this whole writing experiment. With the construction market being what it was, and continues to be, the decision to sell was timely, and the rewards I’ve gained in terms of being home more often are worth more to me than I could have hoped. By focusing primarily on my fire department career and my fatherhood-like responsibilities, I’ve been able to devote the time and effort my family deserves. That’s great. And when no one is around, I hammer out some verbal missives and hope that it brings you some laughs.

Another aspect of life that’s changed is re-focusing on being healthier and slightly less inclined to clutch my chest one day and drop dead (this would absolutely occur in the most embarrassing location possible). To that end, I signed up for a, um, cycling class at the Downtown YMCA and took up some yoga and pilates, just for good measure. This provides my co-workers endless entertainment. To have gone from running heavy equipment and shooting excavation grades to signing up for a “yogalates” class and claiming to want to get home “so I can write” has led some to question my very status as a man.  By “some” I am also including “me”.

Dirt work was never a passion for me, though, not like writing is, and so it’s not as though I’m missing it that much. Sure, I miss my beloved Peterbilts and the excavator was a pretty damn cool machine to own. But I don’t miss the homeowners whining and chasing money down and getting back to the shop at weird hours and, worst of all, my oldest asking me why I’m never home. I miss hanging out with all my contractor friends and looking over a freshly graded site and knowing the job was done right. No matter how great it is to indulge the writing and get in better shape and all, I was missing working with my hands and smelling like diesel and dirt. I need that connection; to work with my hands, to shoot the bull with friends, to build something other than essays on the internet. I also need a way to pay for the ever elusive motorcycle.

And so a simple request from a co-worker was the genesis for my return to manhood. He asked if I have a welder, and the answer is yes, of course. He then asked if I could weld up a new receiver on his lawn mower trailer; I hate to say no, and he’s a friend, and I thought “what the hell, why not?” Within a few days his trailer was in my shop, the Outlaw Trucker was onsite to supervise and drink breakfast PBR’s and I was back. Back to building something. Back to creating. Back to choking on fumes and smelling of grime. In short, I was happy, and I’d found my religion again. I could take on small welding gigs, have Outlaw co-fabricate, and who knows? At the very least I’d have new material to write about, if nothing else. As for payment, I’ve decided to throw out a coffee can, and whatever folks feel the work is worth, that is what they should throw in. Coffee and beer are also accepted forms of currency. I threw the word around the firehouse wires and have had more work already materialize outta thin air. It turns out quite a few people need just a little help mending metal. I’m glad to have some side work / motorcycle money and the company all my friends bring to the shop. We drink strong mud and barley sodas, discuss the state of affairs, cuss the ignorant and praise the worthy. All in all, a pretty good way to spend some time. The re-MANonization process has begun, and I’m all for it…..as long as it doesn’t interfere with spin class.

I know I told you last night that I’d be posting about how I regained my status as a man, and I will, but not today. Today, on the eighth anniversary of the September 11th attacks on our country, I’d like to stop and pay tribute. Most of us can well remember where we were and what we were doing during those tragic moments; it’s the JFK assassination denominator of my generation – “where were you when the attacks occurred / when JFK was shot?”

I was a rookie fireman on duty at Old Fire Station 1 when the terrorists began their murderous rampage. Of all the moments that day, I most clearly remember standing behind one of the beat up old recliners leaning forward to see and hear what was happening on our crappy old television. I remember watching the long lines of firefighters heading up into the buildings and thinking to myself  “what a hellacious scene to be walking into”. And, as the towers came crashing down, in that very moment, I remember vividly thinking “all those brothers just died. I just watched them die. Right there”. I was left hollow for a moment, followed by overwhelming sorrow; enough sorrow to feel the tears come down my cheeks, sad at the thought of so many virtual strangers dying right in front of the nations eyes.

I use the word virtual, because there is a common link to firefighters around the world forged in tradition and brotherhood. So, although I personally know none of the twelve thousand-plus members of the FDNY, there is an occupational bond there that is so subtle as to be almost unnoticed by the outside world; the loss of 343 in one day is emotionally staggering, even from thousands of miles away. It’s like you just lost an entire clan of cousins who you don’t really know all that well, you just know you’re related. The sadness was tinged by the knowledge that those guys must have known they were walking into a death trap of a situation. I wasn’t there – I can’t say WHAT they knew; but even if they were aware of the enormity of the situation and the inevitable results, I doubt that any of them would have turned around.

When you accept the responsibility of being a firefighter (or a cop, or a member of the armed forces), you always know what you’re signing up to do. You accept the prospect of dangerous potential, the standards that you’ll be held to, the very trust that is placed in you by the public. You accept these duties because deep down you WANT to help, you WANT to be the guy people turn to when it hits the fan, you WANT to feel the thrill of adrenaline as you kick the door in and the smoke pours out. But what you DON”T want is to die. Nobody but martyrs and freaky zealots seek death in any of our actions. Like the chance of getting hit walking through a crosswalk, you just assume that there’s always a random possibility that it may be your last run when the bells strike. If you dwell on it more than that, you’ll go mad with anxiety over something that has a good chance of never happening. And so another shift is logged in the books.

Except that it wasn’t for these guys, and it wasn’t for the rest of the firefighting world, either. That so many innocent people had to die in New York, Pennsylvania and the Pentagon that day is not lost on anyone. But when I cried with the rest of our nation that day, I was lamenting the lives of so many of the brotherhood snatched away from their families and loved ones. That’s 343 dads, brothers, cousins, and neighbors wiped out by an insane act of cowardice. All these years later it’s no less overwhelming to tally the losses in my head. The tears are long gone, the anger replaced with a sense of routine structure /chaos and another eight years worth of shifts to show for it. But I’ve never forgotten the sadness I felt as so many of my kind perished one fall morning. I have the utmost respect for those true heroes who died on September 11th and even more so for the brave souls who had to report to the FDNY firehouses for the next shift.

Eight years to the day, and here I am again in a fire station. The call load is normal for us here on Truck 2, the guys are busting each others chops over meals, and outside of a History Channel Sept.11th marathon, it’s no different than any other day at the firehouse. That’s as it should be – we all have jobs to do and lives to live. Just the same, today the specter of that day lingers in my mind, in our collective consciousness, and I hope it always does; we should never forget the loss of life nor the spectacular sacrifices made that day. So, if you think of it, take a moment to remember those we’ve lost; that much respect they deserve.

The funniest scenarios I run into at the fire department always involve a member of the lunatic fringe; one way or another we end up interacting with them in the role of Crazy and me as an amused bystander. This is not to say that the nutjobs don’t have their fair share of emergency response needs; it just makes my day all the better when they decide to call 911 and bring us into their world.

But once in awhile, a relatively normal member of society engages us and then the tables get turned. I end up being the one looking unhinged while they end up looking at me with one eyebrow cocked up high. And this is exactly how yesterday’s shift began.

We were out in the street behind the station rolling out some hose for a training evolution with our rookie when a kindly looking older gentleman shuffled on up to me and asked if he could bend my ear a moment. “Well, of course!” I told him, thinking that chatting with one of our denizens sure beats lugging around 5″ hose. He was toting a folding metal shopping cart, on his way down to the stinky supermarket on the corner, a cutoff sock around his wrist to keep his watch from rubbing a raw spot (I guess?) and enough ear hair to fashion a Dickie turtleneck thingy; immediately I liked this guy.

He says to me “So…I know this isn’t on your agenda, but do you know of any way to get squirrels out of my attic? I mean those little bastards have really done a number on my insulation, the wiring, and God knows what else. What would you do, sir?” I have to say….I was taken slightly aback. I’ve never been consulted on pest control issues, and I was flattered he valued my opinion, which may stem from the fact that it looks like rodents have taken up residence in my hair. Nonetheless. After mulling over the idea for a nanosecond, I told him that he ought to call a pest control company, that I thought I saw a truck the other day that said “Critter Control” or something like that on it’s side, and that’d be a good place to begin. Apparently, this wasn’t the answer my new friend was looking for; he said, “No, my son-in-law, he’s got a pest control business, and I can’t call him.” I CAN’T CALL HIM. What in THE HELL? My friend began to look agitated and went on to list the multitude sins these squirrels had committed against his home. No further mention of the son-in-law.

At this point, the station captain is starting to look over at us and no doubt worrying that the man’s angry gesturing is a result of something I’ve said or done. Again, I am asked what I would do by my elderly inquisitor, and after yet another moment of mulling, I told him he could call the Animal Control and see if they could point him in the right direction. No. That was not what he was looking for, either. I’m beginning to guess that he wanted me to solve the problem as an agent of the Fire Department. As in “drive the ladder truck over to his house and engage in hostilities with the squatting squirrels”. The fact that he kept staring at my shoulders when he talked to me was starting to un-nerve me a little as well; what, you can’t look me in the eye as you dismiss every single bit of wisdom I am doling out here on the street?

So, having run out of reasonable options for dealing with his pests, I answered as best I could when he asked how the FD could help get rid of his squirrels. I looked him dead in the eye (which meant stooping a little) and saying “Sir, if you want us to flood the squirrels out, your house is going to have to catch on fire first.” I then gave him a smile to indicate that I was kidding around, that I wasn’t serious about him torching his own home. His eyes wandered up towards mine and then he said…..

“Well, would I get a free smoke detector if it did?”

Utterly priceless.

Me & The Outlaw Trucker - Steamboat '09

Holiday on a  Monday – few things in life are as cherished to the same degree as a mandated holiday on the nastiest day of the week. And yes, I realize that many of us out there still have to pay homage to the grind, despite the holiday; so before you complain too much about unions and organized labor (yeah, you, Dirtbag!), it’s only a matter of time before the shift calendar mandates my working the next holiday.  I thought I’d run the ol’ Mud Labor-Day style: kicked back, a little late and full of relaxation. Now, I’m off to hydrate with a Guinness and I leave you with the winners and losers for the week. Have a good one, my friends

RAISING OF THE PINT GLASS

1. The Outlaw Trucker. I signed on for a small welding job this week, and it was Outlaw who came to my shop and supervised my actions over a frosty PBR or three. At eight in the morning. The Outlaw can weld like nobody’s business, so when he offers to impart some of his knowledge in the arena of fusing metals, you best listen. I raise my early morning pint glass to you, sir, and thank you for all the help.

2. Firefighters Local 152. This is Labor Day weekend, and I salute my fellow laborers in the Local for all of their efforts to put forth professional service, even when it seems some citizens and politicians feel the need to kick us in the teeth for a mess they created. Tough times are here, but you guys are consummate pros. A pint for the fir na tine, barkeep.

3. Dr. Ellen Ratcliff, DVM. When one of the fighting felines from the compound came home looking as though she’d tangled with an rabid wolverine, our first call was to Ellen. She’s working on the holiday, which sucks, but there’s none better to entrust with the care of one of our brawlers. Thanks, doc, I raise this cold and bold Guinness to you.

KARATE CHOP TO THE THROAT

1. Quack Docs on the internet. The Wife is in a blind rage because her mom keeps believing the utter horse squeeze that comes off of the lines, passing itself off as “medical advice”. It’s easy to spot these shysters for who they are, but then, I’m a fan of the human condition and generally trust nobody; d-bags who claim you need to rub three stones on your gut to cure cancer are as loony as Obama “Birthers” and the Black Helicopter Believers. A karate chop to you…..you’re no better than my Nigerian Prince friends who are so eager to send me my well deserved fortune. Thwack!

2. Poop Slingers. When the family went to a park today, The Heathens went on a mission to find things according to color. Something red, something orange, etc. etc. Very creative planning by The Wife. Well, when Heathen 2 was looking for something brown, guess what he pointed to – yes……a  heaping, steamy pile of dog shit left lying on the ground. If you’re gonna bring your hound to a public park, clean up after it, you thoughtless morons. Chop to your throats, you turd tossers.

3. Weird Girl in Saturn. I pulled up at the aforementioned park with the family and you were just sitting there in your car. Not on the phone. No music. Just darting your eyes back and forth as though some script were being teleprompted onto your front windshield. It was creepy, and even the vague hotness accented by the nose ring couldn’t overcome the heebie-jeebies you were exuding. What made it weirder? An hour later, you were still there, lost in your world. Maybe someone just broke your heart, and that’s a damn shame, but there’s no need for you to skeeze out in a public parking area. You set off my creep-o-meter. And I am overcome with the urge to pre-emptively chop you in the throat.

Although most of your major religions would frown upon the idea, nurturing some well-placed hatred in your heart can be healthy. If you know where to focus your laser beam of unlove, you shield the innocent from being unintentional recipients of your rage. At least, that’s the theory I came up with this morning. So here are some examples of people it’s okay to love a little less:

• Nazis - it’s never, ever cool to be a member of such a pack of idiots. The slim red suspenders, the shaved heads, the raging hatred and what else? Oh yeah, the whole outlook on Jewish folk, Catholics, African-Americans, pretty much anyone who doesn’t have translucent skin and an affinity for crappy punk music. So feel free to hate these morons as much as you like.
• Suburban Gangsters – these are the kids slouching around with a “pimp-limp” and a ball cap with a straight-edge brim that is cocked to the side just a little. Although they pick up most of their gangsta-style ways from MTV’s programming, there’s a good chance their parents will give them their first car which, ironically, looks NOTHING like what you’d roll around in the hood with. Hard to be gangster in Jetta, yo.
• Sean Hannity – this guy is so sleazy, he makes used car salesmen feel “uncomfortably pressured”. While pounding his gavel of morality, I have a nagging suspicion there’s a scandal out there waiting to explode. Something that may involve an illegal-immigrants-on-Oxycontin-sex slave cartel. But that’s just a hunch.
• People who wear sunglasses that make them look like insects. This is patently ridiculous.
• Folks in skinny jeans. As suggested by Buns – and here’s his quote:  “Guys wearing skinny jeans.  This should never, ever, under any circumstances, be a choice for a guy to throw on in the morning.  It looks like you stuffed your peri-pubescent ass into your sister’s ballet leotard on your way to the next Gap photoshoot.  Even girls…really…you’re not doing yourself a favor here.  Skinny jeans are just f—ing stupid on all of humanity.”
• Every driver on the road BUT you. They suck and you know it.
• Rabid zealots- doesn’t matter the faith, diet or fad; they’re gonna try their best to convert you. Get OUT of my face, before I lose control and my lack of muscle is rendered meaningless by my sheer fury. This is how folks get hurt, you know.

Who do YOU dislike?