I was recently reading about Richard Nixon’s infamous Enemies List, a revolving compilation of those who were considered a threat; apparently they were to be “dealt with” utilizing IRS audits and general intimidation tactics. Immediately, I was taken by the bold strategy. This categorization of those who are either: a.) out to get you or b.) deserve your wrath is brilliant and efficient; amazingly enough I had yet to organize such a list. And in these turbulent times, I thought it might be prudent to publish a shortened list  of those who might want to watch their back. The question still lingered in my mind as to how I would rank my enemies. Unlike the Half Past Friday posts which are EXTREMELY scientific in their ranking structure, most of my enemies are equally entitled to scrutinization and therefore indistinguishable in terms of the severity of their offenses against me. So, like Tricky Dick, I’ve decided that this list is subject to constant revision and addition (no subtraction, however. Once on this list, you are never removed).

  • Shea Morenz. Shea, you tortured me from kindergarten through the fourth grade. You were a stud athlete, every cool kid wanted in your gang and you beat me like a drum when the mood struck. I hated you with the blinding rage of a thousand white hot suns. I read later in life that you had played quarterback AND pitched for the University of Texas, got professionally drafted in both sports, only to get injured and whine like a nancy girl when the franchises got tired of your diva-like ways. You faded into obscurity. Good. But that doesn’t mean you’re off The List, and when I find you the results will make the evening news.
  • My satellite Internet providers. You people are of the devil; I am convinced of this. First of all, you insult me with your tech help people claiming that their name is “Larry” or “Peter”. I can hear your accents, you’ve told me that you’re located in India, and I am not an idiot. Just tell me your real name, so when we “interact”, I don’t feel like I’m dealing with some high end prostitute who tells her john to call her whatever name he wants. And you really drive me to drink with your whole “it’s cloudy, and our satellites don’t work in clouds” speech. I pay damn near highway robbery rates for your service, I can call you in Bangladesh at all hours, you somehow harnessed the technology to launch said satellite, you even figured out how to hire creepy felons to install the dish, and you’re gonna tell me that cloud cover is your kryptonite? You’re liars and thieves, and if I didn’t know better I would say you probably manage hedge funds in the off hours; as it stands I doubt you could manage a lemonade booth at the Ozark Empire Fair. So you’ll understand…’re on The List. And sunny days won’t get you off of it.
  • Hey, jackass who pays for the billboards on the highway that proclaim divorced women should not remarry and that I will be burning in hell before long! Yeah you! I’m glad that you’ve chosen to waste your disposable income wagging your righteous finger at me from Highway 44; your supreme idiocy has earned you a spot on my list. You’re beyond belief in your fundamentalist fury, and I wonder who the hell appointed you as the conduit to the The Lord. I appoint you ridiculous halfwits of the midwest. Now, go and stone a heretical rooster to death or something. You’re on The List.
  • Schwann’s Deliveryman. I know why you come by our house / The Wife’s Salon. There is no other reason on earth why you would wear Thomas Magnum (of Magnum P.I. infamy) form fitting shorts while hawking overpriced prepackaged food if you weren’t putting the moves on her. Your pick up lines are cheesy, your undulating eyebrows creepy and your weekly visits duly noted from my shop, out behind the salon. Look, pal, if anyone is gonna stalk The Wife, it’ll be me. You need to move along and work your so-called magic on the bluehairs down the way. Until then The List is your home.
  • Tom/Tom. You two, as the former city manager and mayor of our little ‘burg were at helm of the ship when the critical decisions regarding the police and fire pension fund were made. Now it would seem that when the bills come due, you guys are nowhere to be found, and the citizens are hacked into the next dimension at the thought of paying up…..again. Due to a desire to remain employed in said city, details and opinions will be held in reserve. Just know, you’re on The List.
  • My wallet. I want to know why in the hell you continually escape to various locales. When I am running late, you’re nowhere to be found, and I damn well know that you’re out cavorting with other inanimate objects in my house. I swear I put you in the same place every time, but after an absolute fit of tearing apart our domicile tracking you down I can almost hear you laughing at me. Or maybe those are the voices in my head. Either way, you have no business hanging out in The Wife’s purse, continually vomiting up what little cash money I can squander away. The List for you.
  • Attention Voiceover Guy from local Chevrolet dealership: your screaming tone is no different than the one employed to sell beef jerkey, monster truck rallies and wrasslin’ events. I would wager whatever marketing genius dreamed up this strategy is a fan of all three. I know that it’s the same tactic used by talentless hacks in car dealerships all over the country, but it is as annoying to listen to as cats fornicating. Your shrieking only makes me want to shop ANYwhere else. Do you REALLY think that people believe that the boss is out of town for this weekend only and somehow you have the ability to circumvent the price points? Really? In your warped minds do think that you can screech/intimidate me into buying one of your cars? I’ll tell you what…..if you will let me beat you with a sock full of coins, I’ll buy a vehicle from you. No? Then it’s The List, now and forever.

Never let it be said that my Enemies weren’t given fair notice. Now, if the clouds don’t hinder my connection, I give it to you. Until then, I must go look for my wallet.