Half Past Awesome

A few years back on the Central Coast

Last weekend I took the Heathens to the movies. Just they and me, us just three. We saw “We Bought A Zoo”, a heart-wrenching tale of a father and his two kids who undertake ownership of a zoo as part of buying a house, all brought on by their attempt to move past the death of the mom in the family. Heathen #2 took the opportunity to nap, #1 took it all in and wrestled with the concept of death and roaring lions, while I took the chance to weep like a damn baby every five minutes. Yeah, I don’t recommend you go into that movie with the hopes of a comedic romp, but if you feel like staining your sleeves with tears and snot like a child might, then by all means, go.

The movie highlighted the struggles of family dynamic, of a father trying to connect with his son and daughter, trying to find purpose when his has seemed to vanish into the ether. I haven’t lost a spouse to death, nor have I up and quit my day job, but nonetheless, I’m struggling. We all are. In this time of Facebook and Twitter, where everyone is trying to sell either the very best versions of what they WANT you to see, or in the case of the  latter, bitter snark, it’s easy to feel as though you’ve fallen off the Normal Train.

Lord knows I’ve made horrendous errors. My propensity to only learn things the hard way has cost me pride, dignity and self-respect on more than one occasion. I’ve had friends, good friends, take a look at me and just say “nahhh, I’m not dealing with you.” The ability to take everything too personally has slowed down my personal growth to the point where the middle finger is often my primary reaction to people who may, or may not be, just trying to help. And the sad truth is that is it’s probably going to be that way in many aspect of my life, always. I never wanted to grow up thinking “well I better not experience THAT part of life, because I’ve been told it’s not good, or it’ll hurt.” I’ve NEEDED to grab the stove, so that I could KNOW what getting burned felt like, to hurt like that, to live.

So how to reconcile this rocky path I keep choosing with raising my boys with a semblance of stability? I looked over at them during the movie, as the father in the movie was in the middle of arguing with his son, and I felt distinct chest pains; already my boys like to push the edge of the envelope, and although it’s a normal part of establishing your individual identity, it still hurts sometimes. People in this life will let you down, as I have to many, and I’ve had done to me; but these, my boys, my most rewarding endeavor in this life….they’ve changed the game completely. At the age of six and eight, they’ve taught me more about being an adult than any other adult I’ve known. It is they who continue to teach me how to be a parent. Those two giggling spasms of drive-me-loco energy are who prop me up from my darkest moments. From some unknown paternal well of inner resolve, I’m able to put aside my selfish drive and focus on strength for them in return. From the moment they arrived into this world, naked and screaming, nothing has driven me quite like the sense of protective love I feel for those lunatics. Nothing else could.

Our paths together will continue to wind around unknown corners, little hurts and big heartbreaks testing our will and resolve. But I didn’t get to town on the Normal Train myself, so to bend to convention seems an unlikely option as a parent for me. I’ll love those boys ferociously, for all their lives and then some, and maybe they’ll grow up to question just what kind of unhinged dad they’ve inherited. That’s okay, I’ve never claimed to be normal, or stable for that matter. They’ll grow up with many questions about this fantastic, mean, beautiful world, but one thing I hope they never question is my boundless love for them.

As heart-wrenching as it was, it really wasn’t the movie causing my eyes to leak so prolifically. The sheer enormity of this journey of fatherhood can, at once, cause you to buckle at the knees and give you the kind of strength you never dreamed existed. What a crazy blessing. Thanks for having my back, boys. I’ll always have yours. Always.

"I said SKINNY latte, punk!"

How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving and tolerant of the weak and strong. Because someday in life you will have been all of these. – George Washington Carver

As I slithered from the parking lot into the grocery store, eager to escape the hellacious humidity that defines living in the Bible Belt, all that was on my mind was the delicious iced coffee that would soon be lovingly consumed. I snapped to inside and began my stride across the floor, past the commissioned fish salesman trying to hawk his salmon to my deaf ears, when I realized I nearly cut off an elderly gentleman being pushed in a wheelchair by a store employee towards the Starbucks counter.

She was listening to him gripe about the amount of coffee he wanted put in his cup: THIS much, not THAT much, and HOT but not TOO hot, and why do they always make it so hot and no, I don’t need that much, I need this much, and my back aches.

She listened dutifully, and I pulled aside to let them in front of me; after all, there is a high likelihood that I have more time left on this planet to enjoy coffee than he does, and what the hell, respect has its place.

I hope when I’m old enough to be pushed about in a wheelchair, someone has the patience and kindness to listen to me bitch about the coffee, the state of the Union, those damn kids. I won’t have earned it, any more than this old coot has, that much is certain. But I guess I have enough faith in us as a people that I might merit a push up to a coffee counter.

Thank you, lady, for being that kind of person.

A Toast

"When a horse learns to buy martinis, I'll learn to like horses." S. McQueen

To the dawn of the new season

and the awakening of the soul

To the idea that the little things matter

To those we miss

To family

To friends who don’t waver, and to whom we never will

To those serving our country, without politics

To my grandfather who wasn’t afraid to whack me with his cane when the occasion warranted it

To passion

To the perfect pairing of food and spirit

To another day in the books

and the possibilities for tomorrow

To random questions and unorthodox answers

To the echo of  the strings as sweet music is created

To open doors and the hopeful knock of the bold

To a well crafted pint

To all that we have to offer one another

I salute you.

Sláinte!

"Looky what I made"

I’m no grammarologist….the evidence is overwhelming. But now that people are communicating more than ever over social media sites and everyone broadcasts their opinions in 140 characters or less, I’m left to wonder if emphasis and emotion triumph over common sense. Of course, the answer is yes, but I have these lingering questions:

• Why do you type in all caps? In the distant past (2002) that was meant as a form of shouting. You did something stupid (broadcast pictures of your boss making out with the entire carpool) and the angry response came in the form of an all capital letter tirade. It usually included the words “YOU’RE FIRED!” Now, I think people are trying to show their excitement, but really, it just comes across as a screeching, desperate plea for Ritalin.

• Along the same lines, I wonder why you feel the need to utilize more than one exclamation point, when maybe even one was too many. I know you’re excited that you’re favorite band is coming to town, or there’s a tweetup going on down at the coffee shop, but using it all the time? Please!!!!!

• Boosters. Back in English 101 you would’ve qualified for a public caning had you not cited sources when you were directly quoting someone else. And I mean a direct boost, not a familiar/common saying (Yeah, you, Copper). So why is it now no big deal to steal the wit of someone on Twitter and make it your Facebook status without even some gratuitous quote marks? To make matters worse, when people comment on “your” funny take, you’re not even saying that you lifted it….you’re silently taking credit. Dirty pool, that’s what that is. And guess what? When we meet up in person, and it’s obvious from the vanilla banter that those status updates were not of your own creation? It totally comes across.

• Why don’t you go see a doctor? You’re clearly almost dead; your past 16 updates have focused on your migraine/flu symptoms/ingrown toenail. I get it, we all get it….you need some sympathy and, in the words of my father “a reeeeeal swift kick in de ass.” Save the details of your hypochondria for a blog post, which is clearly a better medium for laying out all the gory details of your latest sore throat. I should know, I do it all the time.

• When you post pictures of your meal, you’re committing the social media equivalent of saying “I have nothing to say. So here, look at my food, why don’t you?” By now, it’s patently obvious that every single person on the internet is a better cook than I, so for the love of Cap’n Crunch stop showing me your braised ribs in duck reduction sauce, or I’m going to start posting pictures of my various, award winning toast creations.  I realize there’s no question here, but it seemed like the right place to lodge the complaint.

• Why must you lambaste your obnoxious teen publicly? I realize, there’s no shortage of material out there that he/she is providing you to give reason for pulling out your hair/drinking at 9 am./taking up a prescription medication abuse hobby, but give the kid just a little break. Remember when we were teens? When our parents lectured us on the evils of drink with a glass of Chardonnay in hand, which only drove us into the arms of Pabst Blue Ribbon? Yeah, it’s still the same. So cut the kid some slack, because believe me, when you bitch about him/her online, they’ve not only read it, they’re busy ordering your credit rating destroyed by all their way-smarter-than-us-technologically friends. And subscribing to porn in your name.

• And lastly, how does re-posting religious proclamations/love for a nurse/appreciation for your nanny as your status make any sense? In the same manner that using a cartoon character as your profile picture won’t stop child abuse/cattle rustling/mesothelioma, your status update is YOURS, treat it as such, and not as a tool of guilty peer pressure. Trust me, no one thinks you’re FOR a bad cause if you don’t hop on the train, unless, of course, we’re dealing with zombies – that’s a game changer.

ps- I still love you, but I’ll completely understand if you recognize yourself in any of these situations and promptly unfriend, unfollow, or simply send a piece of hate mail in all caps with lots of exclamation points.

Let's not force the issue / copyright, some Italian guy on Flickr

It must be time to lay out another essay: there were 99 comments in the spam filter, almost all of which were either in Russian or advertising porn and cut-rate Cialis. I’d hate to disappoint my perverted Soviet core support group, so I thought I’d write up a little something. How about 5 things I’ve learned this week? Sound good, comrades?

1. I learned of a heretofore unused new term for “hangover” that has been employed by my father: vertigo. It’s much more socially acceptable to use that term when you’re staggering around the next morning, growling for coffee and babbling incoherently. I shouldn’t be surprised, really; he has an awesome laundry list of other claims (read them here!)
2. Pull-ups when you’re as weak as I am can only be accomplished through what looks to others like a genuine and total seizure, complete with grunts and spastic slobbering. Which is why, after one or two, I collapse into a heap and actually have a seizure.
3. There’s nothing that can make a motor mouth like me speechless like witnessing my 1st grade son kiss his girlfriend in the school hallway. In front of parents and teachers. And me. There is no escaping that moment, and the accompanying mix of emotions: pride, fury, respect and a desire to slap them both. That was a fun car ride home.
4. Offering up your writing to various outlets is a great way to learn the many versions of the word “no” that are out there. It’s also a great self-esteem check valve.
5. Yelling at cats doesn’t phase them in the least. If anything, it makes them shoot a leg up into the air and lick their genitals in front of you. I could take a lesson from their self-assured obliviousness.

From The Dirty Churros Archives....

Tomorrow, I’ll be undergoing some sort of exploratory procedure. The details are somewhat murky, but the long and the short of it is that some people who practice this sort of thing will be trying to discover why I can’t hardly eat a solitary slice of apple without having a near death choking experience. Since it gets really, really old to constantly be clutching your throat at restaurants while your eyes shoot off in different directions, I’m on board with this whole thing. But since I’ll be under the influence of drugs the names of which I cannot pronounce, I immediately assume there’s a chance I’m gonna die, violently maybe. That being the case, I thought I’d update my will, the last copy of which was printed on a cocktail napkin one night in the throes of a rum bender and an argument over the origins of the M.A.S.H. theme song.

So here goes nothing, literally.

I, Uli, being of unsound, unstable mind and broken body do leave my entire estate to the following people in the event of my untimely demise in a bizarre industrial mishap or some equally chaotic end.

1. To my children, The Heathens, I leave the bulk of my substantial debt. This seems to be trend of our national leaders, and I’m nothing, if not a patriot. I would encourage them to utilize this situation to learn how to speak multiple languages and enjoy the concept of living abroad, preferably in the company of women of ill-repute.
2. To The Wife, I leave my 5 hockey sticks and my entire metric wrench collection. I never did trust her to use the standard size with the proper amount of respect. Also, I leave to her my collection of dirty and clean laundry, unwashed dishes and vast assortment of paper clips I’ve been hoarding over the last year.
3. To The Dirtbag, I leave my beloved dual-sport motorcycle. I should warn you, it’s not paid off yet, so rip the plate off and head south of the border when you come pick it up. As well, you’ll have access to my motorcycle gang of two, The Dirty Churros, and my friendship with El Jefe, but odds are you two won’t get along. Think of this as a team-building exercise, and my last gift to you.
4. To my shop cats, I bequeath my air compressor and all the associated pneumatic tools. I think it would be awesome if they figured out how to use them to terrorize the feline world. Best of luck, gatos.
5. To ThunderChicken, I leave my vast stash of frozen bacon. Lord knows, you look like you could use some, man. That staying fit stuff might kill you yet….in fact it may be why you’re now reading MY last will.
6. To my brothers, Bones, Buns, Chewie, Nan, and Barbara, I leave you nothing, because you’ve spent your lives making mine miserable, and this is what you deserve. Fine, the five of you can split my sweet collection of old red shop rags. No fighting.
7. To RoJo, I leave all of the books and magazines I’ve been quietly stealing from you since I was 18. Don’t hold a grudge.
8. To The Outlaw Trucker, I leave all the scrap metal in my shop. Weld me something beautiful, preferably a statue of me stabbing a savage, attacking wild beast in the eyes. Use your imagination.
9. To The City of Springfield Fire Department, I leave that tube of toothpaste that’s in my locker, and that itchy, nasty wool blanket I was issued in rookie school and made to swear I’d return in 25 years. Most lower mammals wouldn’t use that thing to nest in, by the way.
10. To my friend The Author, I leave my glorious, luminous and entirely non-grey head of hair and magnificent pelt of manly chest hair. You’re welcome.
11. Finally, to my beloved canine MoJay the psycho-killer boxer, I bequeath all of our domestic garbage receptacles since you’ve spent the last year knocking them over and rooting through them at every chance. Go on, help yourself to old banana peels and coffee grounds. I hope you gag on an old guitar string, you obnoxious bastard. I love you so much.

There you have it. I expect this will to be faithfully executed, but let’s be honest here: most of you are gonna come over, loot all of my worldly possessions and then burn my house to the ground, pissing on the flames as you pour out your malt liquor over the ashes. I’m good with that, too.

Winter's Bone-Chilling Cold (AP Photo/Kiichiro Sato)

This past weekend an old high school friend I call The Author paid me a visit from out in sunny Southern Cali all the way to the snowy center of the continent. Ostensibly, we were looking over some information that may have led to a collaborative project between us; realistically we were catching up and enjoying the company as one only can with a friend with whom you have a couple of decades of history. As to the writing project, we’ll talk about that later, but suffice it to say that I really look up to this guy; what he’s done in the creative community, projects from novels to screenplays and roles in his life as varied as mountaineer to independent producer. Just the chance to collaborate with him is worth at least a six pack of Guinness on the open market.

He took off last night, back to the land of the fit and fabulous, back to his grind of creative output. And here I sit in front of my seemingly vanilla laptop (not a Mac), staring at the same old news sites I use to come up with inane tales of stupid observation (hello, Daily Mail) and there’s an overwhelming melancholy to the whole bit.

I think it’s being surrounded by the creative energy of someone else that inspires such impetus for me to create. That’s why observing my kids create art, ninja battles and other products from their fertile imaginations provides me with such intrinsic happiness. It’s why I root for the artists striving to break out, such as Nathan Maulorico of Unknown Films or Sarah Bliss Rasul, who does amazing work in several types of media. I want to see their creative talents rewarded, because they’ve been given a gift, one that I hope provides them with the ability to dedicate their lives to it.

Because if they can do it, I’m inspired to believe that I can as well.

The downside is when I’m apart from other weird, creative types, I get into a funk. It feels like the world is transpiring all around me, as though there’s this tremendous wave of artistic flow happening just outside Missouri’s borders. It’s the same feeling I used to get when waking up from an afternoon nap as a kid: something just happened out there, and I missed it. Let’s face it – the fire service is just that…. a service, and a valuable one at that. Really, though, it’s the application of science to disaster. Preparedness, training, conditioning, paperwork, all these are hallmarks of a successful career in the fire department. While it’s necessary to keep the lights on with a job like this, for which I’m grateful, I pin a lot of happiness on the ability to create while off-duty.

And when I find myself in a melancholy jag, watching a friend’s plane take off from our gray and white world out here in the Great State of Ranch Dressing? I look to the boys, my very own Heathens, and take comfort and inspiration from their very own creations. Ninja battles and Legos never looked so good.

The Voices In My Head Stopped Talking To Me

I’ve noticed when writer’s block hits, and I ask those around me for subjects, there’s a universal response: “You should write about ___(me)”.

Crosffitters want to hear about the slow deaths endured at the Box, firefighters want to hear about the camaraderie and shenanigans. People like the lists, as long as they stay focused on their interests. And The Wife is always quick to point out that I’ve not adored her enough in e-print, lately.

Now, as opposed to being a rant about the raving self-absorption we all engage in, this diatribe is one in which I praise you for it. Here’s why:

It means we’re connecting.

When I write it and you read it and you mutter to yourself  “hell yes, I hate how society rewards the Lindsay Lohans of this world, too!” or something like that, it is the very definition of success to me. Being the class clown is more than a pathetic cry for attention; we really want to amuse you, make you laugh at us and at yourselves and all the ridiculousness that comes with taking life too seriously. I imagine you somewhere, taking a moment away from looking up the ads soliciting parking lot encounters on Craigslist, and stumbling across this blog, this one right here, and chuckling for 10 seconds. Then you probably head to back to The Onion or porn or whatever, but in that moment? We connected, and that’s the name of this game.

Today a friend of mine turned 30, and when I visited her at the radio station, lottery tickets and coffee in hand, I told her of my dilemma about coming up with a good subject to write about. I was bouncing the idea around about how the doctor would likely confirm that I was pregnant at my appointment today, that it wasn’t the Guinness after all, when she says “you should write about turning 30. Like how much it sucked, or whatever.” I was thinking to myself, “hells bells, I’d love to turn 30 again.”

But, in retrospect, the pregnancy post really came across worse than it does right now, and I was back to considering her idea about birthdays, aging, bad hips, et al. And it struck me: she finds it funny enough when I throw my bullshit online that she’d like me to write about her turning 30. And I’m grateful for that.

So, in an effort to connect with her, too, here goes:

Turning 30 makes one feel really, really old, until it is viewed from the perspective of someone who is 36.

Now, back to my regularly scheduled writer’s block. We’ll talk some more about you, all of you, later.

Oshie Shoots (image courtesy Mark Buckner/NHLI via Getty Images)

In just a few minutes, the puck will be dropped as the St. Louis Blues take on the Detroit Red Wings at the Scottrade center; we’re gathered near the roof of the rink, center ice to be sure, but so high up that there’s a noticeable delay when a player makes a shot and the sound of it reaches us. I’m desperately trying to reconcile in my mind why it is that I love hockey so much that even though I can’t name the current roster of my beloved Blues, I feel like I’ve been a fan all my life. I’m not a sports nut, actually not even much of a fan. I enjoy playing sports, but I’m not very good at it, especially as it comes to hockey; that’s the price of learning how to skate when your 29 years old as opposed to 2.9 years old (per Canadian law).

So why is it that hockey turns me into a screaming, bellowing fan, outraged at missed calls, pulled out of my seat when a goal is scored, cheering as though we’ve just landed a man on the moon for the first time?

I think it’s because I find hockey analogous to life in so many ways.

The puck drops and St. Louis can’t seem to battle it back to their defensemen, so they must now play in a defensive mode, preparing for Detroit attack. This pisses me and 19,000 other people off (Red Wings fans, notwithstanding).

Hockey is a jittery, fast, inconsistent sport, with a constantly changing face of play that demands the ability to act and react on a moments notice. I realize that my life is lived inconsistently and my caffeinated addictions result in jittery behavior. Back and forth, up the ice and down, these fit and furious men are constantly engaging in give and take, elbowing their way into advantageous positions, looking to exploit the tiniest loopholes in their opponents strategy and skills; it’s politics and Wall Street on ice, minus the lawyers.

Detroit goes up by three goals in the second period, and I take it personally. I angrily shout at the boys from 10,000′ up, as though they’re looking to me for coaching advice. All at once I hate myself and am totally immersed in this moment. When I hear fans of other sports talking about “their” team in the first person plural, I’m overcome with urge to slap them right in the mouth:

“Yes, if we don’t get our defense anchored before next week, Green Bay is gonna tear us apart.”

What is this “we” business? Does the coaching staff call you up and solicit you for advice with regards to their team strategies? YOU are not the team, you are not ON the team, you are an overweight, lazy spectator, and don’t give me that “ownership in the game” bull either. You’re living vicariously through the athletic endeavors of people who don’t know you from shit, and frankly, it’s a little embarrassing to see you carry on like that.

Except for me, and except for tonight. Except for every night I go to a Blues game. I’ve become that guy. And the rush it brings.

Oh, the rush.

The surge of emotions when Oshie FINALLY sends a saucer into the net (check it out here, it’s the clip from 11:44 in the 2nd period), and it’s as though I’ve just found out it’s not cancer, after all. Out of my seat, $9 worth of Guinness splashing all over my overpriced jersey, and I’m lost in the moment. All is hope is not dashed, not yet. This will NOT be a shutout, and as the horn blows, thousands of fans gain optimism at high decibels.

Life is compromise and constant adaptation to circumstances beyond your control. Hockey players do the same thing in 1 minute shifts. And who comes out on top? The player willing to find just a little more juice at the bottom of his tank, willing to chase that puck into the corner, scrum it out with a vicious passion and make something big happen. It’s the same in life. We root for the single parent who has to dig deep into her own passion to provide for her family, willing to fight to make a better life for her kids. We’re touched by people who seem hopelessly overwhelmed and somehow find the grit to fight back, to triumph against the obstacles in their path. Hell, we hungrily absorb movies like Forrest Gump and the Pursuit of Happyness, one fiction, one based on fact because we want to cheer them on, we want to we savor their triumphs.

The same holds true for me when I watch Blues hockey.

I’m rooting for the boys to find that strength, to draw deep from that well of iron will, to beat the unholy piss out of the Detroit Red Wings.

And somehow, I’m convinced that my own iron will has played a role in the Blues tying up the game in the closing minutes of the third period. I’ve now switched over to Red Bull and churros as a means of keeping my laser-beam focus of positive energy aimed soberly towards a win. We just might do this. We just might defeat our hated rivals in the Central Division. The coaching staff has yet to place a call to my cell phone so as to inquire how I’d handle the special teams lineups. But that’s okay. Right now they need me. I’m convinced of this.

The clocks ticks down in the third period, and this can mean only one thing : it’s going to overtime.

5 minutes of chaos, with “sudden death” rules set into play, meaning that the first team to score wins it all. It’s not as though it matters in the big scheme of the NHL; Detroit is in first place in the division, as usual, and my beloved Blues are trolling in third (out of four).  Since their inception as an expansion team in 1967, they’ve never won a Stanley Cup, despite multiple playoff appearances. They’re perennial underdogs, which is a huge part of their appeal to me, their uninvited coach high up in the stands, in a Guinness and Red Bull frenzy of panic and expectation. C’mon boys; make a play happen. Make the three and half hour trip back home worth the drive. Don’t let me down, don’t give the entire fair-weather Red Wing nation one more reason to gloat.

One minute and fifty one seconds later it’s over. Darren Helm, one of the fastest skaters in the NHL and, unfortunately, a Red Wing, scores off of a pass from Jiri Hudler. Just like that, it’s over. Another non-win.

Dejected, muted fans begin the long descent from our perches at high altitude. As the teeming masses cram onto the escalators, the mood picks up considerably, as fans begin to buoy one another up with loud claims of unfair referees, bullshit calls, and the mercenary tactics of the Detroit hiring staff.

The boys in blue will come and go, changing jerseys as their contracts allow, in pursuit of victories and paydays and a chance to play in the big leagues. And toiling away, with a bizarre sense of undeserved ownership, the myriad fans of hockey in this most Midwestern of towns will continue to support their boys. They’ll wear jerseys and spend ungodly amounts of money on beer and pretzels and they, and I, will pull together every time we enter the rink, bellowing like fools for the Blue Notes.

"Do these shades make me look taller?"

Hello.

By now, as I’m sure you’ve heard, I’ve been selected by the voices in my head to assume the mantle of Supreme Exalted Leader Of All Mankind.

Yes, I know, it’s an awesome responsibility, and with it comes the burden of shepherding the flock of humanity towards a path more befitting my title and righteous glory. No big deal.

This whole thing came to me in a garlic-Parmesan chicken wing-induced haze at around 3am the other morning, in between infomercials about dating exotic women on the telephone.

So, that being said, we gotta make some changes around here; to get started, I thought I’d lay down the first ten rules of life under my magnanimous leadership. These are non-negotiable items, so don’t you go and get fresh with me, or I’ll send you to the same prison cell as Lindsay Lohan, and believe me it’ll be no treat for either of you. So, in three words, COMPLY OR DIE.

Have a glorious day.

1. The inauguration of my ascent to power will be highlighted as such: there will be a to-the-death cage-match between Snooki (the trollish Cookie Monster from Jersey Shore) and Sarah Palin (the snow monster of the Great North). Tina Turner will be the ringside announcer, and she will be in her Thunderdome outfit. Chainsaws and tanning oils to be provided.
2. If you have a handicapped license plates and do NOT have any noticeable ailments (or children with them), you are not allowed to be a smoker. If we are going to give you the best parking places (a sacrifice on our part), then you will sacrifice, too, and give up the cancer sticks, thereby relieving us of the duty of paying for the associated health-care costs you’ll no doubt incur. Again, blue plates = no smokey smokey.
3. Speaking of the Great North, preparations will be made to invade Canada. Currently, there is a shortage of quality hockey players coming out of our country, and in a bid to capture good skaters and natural resources, we’ll be imposing some freedom on our neighbors to the North. As a sweeping gesture of benevolence, I will, in exchange, give the entire Southern United States to Mexico. Let them have the humidity, tornadoes and monster truck rallies, says I.
4. Traffic will be improved. Here’s how: all roads will have four lanes in each direction, each lane being separated by a concrete barrier. The inner lane is reserved for drivers 16-24, there are no speed limits, texting, talking and makeup application will not only be encouraged, it’ll be mandated. The outer lane is reserved for people over 52.5, and there will be no speeds allowed above 37 mph. Left turn signals will be on at all times and signs in that lane will be in 25,000,000 font. The middle two lanes are for the rest of us, and any behavior that deviates from what I find satisfactory is punishable by lectures of up to seven hours, delivered by Fran Drescher and Gilbert Gottfried.
5. All you can eat restaurants will go the way of the dodo bird. You want a plate of food, you pay for it. You want a second plate of food? You pay for that too. With obesity reaching the levels they are, there is no real reason for AYCE‘s to exist, and they won’t be tolerated.
6. NASCAR, as well, shall heretofore be banned. Cars go fast, then they turn left. I don’t understand why this is the flame that draws the redneck moth, but it’s high time we turn the bug zapper on. Again, with the donation of the Southern U.S. to Mexico, that will probably become a problem our neighbors to the south will have to contend with. Good luck, amigos.
7. Churches will no longer be tax-exempt. If you have an issue with that, I urge you to take a visit to your local mega-church, gaze upon the copper spires and neon billboards and contemplate just why it is that these businesses ought to be able to skip out on the taxes the rest of us shell out. Well, really, the rest of you saps once I am anointed.
8. Prison over-crowding will no longer be an issue. All inmates who want to claim gang affiliation will meet out in the yard at noon each day, whereby knives, shivs, shanks and other pointy weapons will be handed out. Two hours later, the survivors will report back to their cells.
9. I will be keeping an enemies list, and it will be a very dynamic and secretive conglomeration of those who are in the wrong. I’d advise you to stay off of it, unless you’ve already been declared dead to me, a position from which there is no return. You know who you are.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I do believe there are a plate of wings and some phone-dating infomercials calling my name.

You’re welcome, gentle subjects.

-Fearless Leader Of All That Is Good And Right