Why I Don't Go Out in Public Much Part Four

Why do I do it? Why do I come here? Why do I set foot in the China Buffet? I know I'm going to hate it. I know it's going to probably give me the runs. But like an abused housewife, I keep going back for more. Like a Cleveland Browns fan, I'm drunk on hope. Like a Justin Beiber fan, I'm a fucking moron.

But today was oh so special. Today confirmed my long-held belief that some of us in this society need to be eliminated. I know, I know, that's a very harsh statement. How dare I look down on my fellow human beings. But today, I hope you will hear my story and understand where I'm coming from, because, dear reader, it is a true story.

So I'm sitting there at the China Buffet eating the stuff that passes for "food" when three people, a boyfriend and girlfriend who look as if they've just come from an Insane Clown Posse concert, and a young man looking to be in his early 20s. The couple have a young child with them, looking to be around 2 years old. The couple puts the kid in a high chair and head over to the buffet. After a minute of sitting there with the baby, the young guy gets up AND LEAVES THE KID BY HIMSELF.

YEAH. HE LEFT A BABY ALONE. BY HIMSELF. ALONE!!!

It took the - quote, unquote - parents about three or four minutes to get back to the table. And when they did, the guy asked his female squeeze, "Where's Jimmy?" And she said (and I'm quoting verbatim), "I ain't know."

Finally, the cunt called Jimmy comes back to the table and the female troglodyte says to Jimmy the Cunt, "Jimmy you ain't suppose ta leave a kid by his-self."

To which cunt-ball Jimmy says, "Ha... I told you I ain't good with kids. I ain't jokin' when I say I shouldn' have 'em. HUH-HUH-HUH."

And they laughed and laughed. Momma laughed. Daddy laughed. Cunt-face Jimmy laughed. The kid didn't laugh though. Probably because he was the most intelligent person at the table.

The funny thing is, the kid didn't cry once when he was left by himself, or search around to see where his parents were, or throw a fit. More than likely because the little guy sensed he was better off.

Jesus Christ. People piss me off.

Strongly Worded Letters to Inanimate Objects Part Three: “Kiss My Ass, Fortune Cookie”

Dear Fortune Cookie That Led Me to Believe I Could Be a Jedi,

So there I was letting my Mu Goo Gai Pan digest when I cracked you open and read the following:

“You will experience the force and it will change your life.”

Holy tits, I thought. I’m gonna be a Jedi! I'll be as cool as the fuckin' guy to the left!!



But then I read it again.

“You will experience a force that will change your life.”

Damn it! I wasn’t going to be a Jedi at all! That’s a bunch of shit to make me not read more good, dumbass fortune cookie!

In fact, I got so mad that I started jumping up and down and screaming and started punching things (the wall, the table, a nun), which freaked out the rest of the people in the restaurant. BUT I DIDN’T CARE! I was mad!

But, when I was jumping up and down it must’ve knocked something loose inside me because I crapped my pants and when I smelled the crap, it made me puke, and when some old lady saw me puke, she puked, and some baby that was sitting in a high chair crapped his pants too, and then the owner came out and saw all the puke and the shit and then he puked and shit, and then the owners wife came out and she puked and shit, too, and she also, for some reason, peed and for some reason when I saw her pee, I went pee and my pee mixed with my puke and shit and I had to drive home like that – caked in my own filth! AND I HAD PLANNED ON PICKING UP A NICE YOUNG LADY (see: prostitute) THIS EVENING! BUT NOW I CAN’T BECAUSE I HAVE TO GO HOME AND SHOWER FOR THE SECOND TIME THIS MONTH!

What the hell, fortune cookie?! This is all your fault!

But having said that, you were pretty tasty. Keep up the good work.

Yours,
Mike

So This is... Christmas?

It’s always amusing this time of year. If it weren’t for those two mortal enemies of populous, average thought (logic and reasonable thinking), you might start to believe all the buzz words and phrases that seem to crop up on “Fox News” and “The 700 Club” when the wind turns cold and the jolly guy invites your kids to sit on his lap (I mean Santa Claus, not Jerry Sandusky).

You’ve heard it: “Keep ‘Christ’ in Christmas!” “Say NO to ‘Happy Holidays’”, and, of course, “There’s a War on Christmas!”

Really? So, what exactly IS a War on Christmas? Are roving gangs of Jewish militants sabotaging the Christmas cards? Are they covertly replacing eggnog with Manischewitz wine, ham with gefilta fish, the “White Christmas” DVD with a Mel Brooks movie? Or have “the gays” formed a FABULOUS militia infiltrated our military? (According to the Village People they already have our Navy.)

It’s kind of funny when certain Christians complain that their traditional Christmas values are under attack. After all, Christmas does celebrate the birth of Christ, but the pageantry surrounding it (lights in the trees, giving gifts, etc.) is rooted in Pagan tradition (as is Easter). So, do you have a tree in your home? Did you put up lights? Will you exchange gifts? If so, you’re engaging in a partially-Pagan tradition!

What I’m asking, brothers and sisters, is this: Why are you complaining that so many groups are trying to enforce their traditions and beliefs on you when you’ve already adopted the traditions of other groups (the Pagans) well over a couple of centuries ago? Simply BECAUSE you celebrate Christmas in the manner that you do (gifts, lights, trees, etc.), is proof enough that you were willing and able to let other groups combine with your own traditions to form a whole new way of celebration!

So, I ask you, what’s the freakin’ problem?

Maybe the biggest enemy on Christian values this time of year isn’t an outside force.

Maybe it’s hypocrisy.

But as far as getting offended over the term “Happy Holidays” is concerned, maybe we should just come up with a new holiday slogan that can appease everyone and slight no one’s belief system.

How about:

“May whatever god/goddess/thing you worship bring you peace/happiness, try real hard not to fight with/offend/kill anyone that doesn’t think like you, and, above all, know when to keep your mouth shut, and be willing to admit that you don’t have all the fucking answers.”

Yeah, it’s probably too long for a Hallmark card, but at least I’m trying.

Strongly Worded Letters to Inanimate Objects Part Two: "Indian Food"

Dear Plate of Indian Food that I Ate Which Caused Me to Shit Uncontrollably for Two Days,

Indian Food, I will put it plainly: you have wrecked my asshole. Not even my former priest Father Daniel “Tell No One” O’Neal can lay claim to that. So, should I congratulate you? Well, I WILL NOT! I refuse to bestow a congratulatory handshake, because you don’t have hands, and even if you did have hands I wouldn’t shake your hands! SO THERE!

What I would like to do is kick you in the balls, but I can’t, because you have no balls, but if you did, you could CONSIDER THOSE BALLS KICKED, MOTHERFUCKER!

How is it that something that takes but an hour to cook and twenty minutes to eat end up fucking up my shit for forty-eight hours? And by “fucking up my shit” I literally mean my shit is fucked up! Seriously! Oh, dear God, the burning! And the diarrhea, oh, the endless diarrhea! You know, I had wondered my entire life why people from India talk so fast. It’s not because of their culture, it’s simply because they’re trying to wrap up the conversations as soon as possible so they can get to the nearest fucking toilet!




GHANDI WAS NOT DOING ANYTHING NOBLE DURING HIS HUNGER STRIKE! NO, NO! HE JUST COULDN’T STAND THE FOOD ANYMORE!

You are like the Kid Rock of foodstuffs, Indian Food – you turn my stomach, you won’t go away, and you’ve hung around way too fucking long. At least you had the decency to not ruin songs by Warren Zevon and Metallica. BUT THAT’S THE ONLY COMPLIMENT YOU SHALL GET FROM ME!

Here’s the thing: I am writing this on my laptop whilst it balances on my clenched knees as I sit on my toilet, trying my damndest to push any remaining remnant of you out of my system. But it is a battle I fear I cannot win. I feel like Napoleon at Waterloo! Custer at Little Big Horn! And that One Guy who got his Ass Kicked at that One Place that One Time!

Indian Food, if there be a just God in this universe, may He send thee to the Darkest Pits of Hell so that yea may rot for eternity! Or to Detroit. Whichever.

(Un)sincerely,
Mike

Strongly Worded Letters to Inanimate Objects, Part One: "Fuck You, Pop-Tart"

Dear Pop-Tart I was eating this morning that decided to break in half,

Fuck you.

Seriously.

There I was, eating you, cramming your frosted strawberry goodness into my pie hole when you, whilst I was nary half way through devouring your splendid succulence (F.Y.I. "Spendid Succulence" is the title of my forthcoming smooth jazz album), decided it was in YOUR BEST INTEREST to break in half! Who does something like that? Who gives up on being eaten half way through, besides my last girlfriend?


I could've been as happy as the little asshole on the left, you dumbass Pop-Tart!




So, you break in half, and what happens?! You bewitch me with a spell that renders all cognitive sense inside me mute! Yes, that’s what happened. That has to be what happened, stupid fucking Pop-Tart, because when the uneaten portion of your fruitful geometry (F.Y.I. "Fruitful Geometry" is the title of my forthcoming gay porno, and "Forthcoming" is also the name of the planned sequel) began falling to the floor, I tried to grab you with my other hand. THE OTHER HAND THAT CONTAINED A GLASS OF WATER! Yes! A glass! Of water! Who tries to catch something in a hand that’s already filled, I ask you, you stupid, asshole, cunt Pop-Tart! Me! That’s who! Yes, the bedazzled and brutally blinded buffoon that you made me, shit-sucking, twat-bag, Pop-Tart.


Seriously, Pop-Tart, go fuck yourself.

Seriously.



So there I stood, water splashing onto my shoes and onto my new copy of National Geographic (actually, it was Hustler), with only HALF of the Pop-Tart for which I paid good unlaundered money for and NO WATER LEFT IN MY CUP! Thanks for ruining my day, asshole Pop-Tart!

This must be exactly what Jesus was feeling when the Jews were whipping Him! Oh God, why have you forsaken me?!

Pop-Tart, take a seat. I want to express my full disdain for you. If you had a face, I’d punch you in your stupid fucking strawberry frosted face! Pop-Tart, if you had balls, I’d kick you in your gooey, artificially flavored balls. (Actually, that sounds gross. NOTE TO SELF: Strike that sentence before it goes out for final edit!)

Pop-Tart, if you had a mother I’d call her a bitch right to your stupid face. But you don’t have a mother! Or a father! HAHA! YOU’RE AN ORPHAN! FUCK YOU!

So, in conclusion, rot in Hell half of the Pop-Tart that I paid the FULL price for! (And yes, I know that I ended that sentence with a proposition, but, piss off, don’t correct me on MY grammar, you stupid-ass, shitheaded, communist, giving-up-half-way-through, lazy-ass Pop-Tart!)

Fuck you, Pop-Tart.

Seriously.

Fuck you.


I Loved You… Once,
Mike

Why I Don't Go Out in Public Much Part Three

This is getting ridiculous, and, furthermore, ricockulous.

So, once again, I'm at Panera Bread...

You'd think I'd learn my lesson, but no. I don't know why I keep going back there. I don't drink coffee. I'm not attracted to any woman that works there. I don't have any sort of bouts of nirvana-esque clarity. So, why do I keep going there? Hell, I don't know.

Anyway...

I'm waiting in line. There's an older woman in front of me. And by "older" I mean "fucking old". She's a crone. A craggy looking humanoid from a bygone era. Anyway, she orders a tea. The guy behind the counter tells her the total and she starts looking through her purse for her debit card.

And she looks.

And she looks.

And she looks.

This goes on - I shit you negative - for five minutes.

You're probably thinking, "No, it didn't! You're exaggerating, asshole!"

If it were an average day, I would say you're right. But not today. No. It took her five minutes. You wanna know how I know that?

I FUCKING TIMED HER!

I was patient for a minute. Hostile for the second minute. For the remaining three, I decided to stand there just to see how long it was going to take her to find her goddamn card. Some people rubberneck at trainwrecks. I rubberneck at human trainwrecks.

So, as Grandma Moses finally comes to the conclusion that St. Anthony is not going to come out of the fucking sky and place her fucking card in her purse, she decides it's in her best interest to check her pants pocket.

GUESS WHAT SHE FINDS!?!?

Her card.

She pays - finally - and I go up to the counter. The young-ish bloke at the register whispers, "Sorry about the wait." I nod. "What can I get ya?" he asks.

I clear my parched throat and say, "I'll take a small fountain drink a DVD copy of 'Logan's Run' please."

He almost looses it, but he keeps his composure.



But the fun doesn't end there, no, no, no.

I take a seat and start searching through the internet. A little girl walks over to where I'm sitting. Comes closer. Closer. And then tries to crawl into my fucking lap!

"Get away, would you!" I yell at the kid.

I was waiting for Chris Hanson to come out from around the corner!

I would be a lot more tolerant if the kid was a toddler, but she looked to be about 7 or 8!

I look over and her mother is just sitting there reading the damn paper.

"Excuse me!"

She looks up, her eyes as lost and as empty as a retarded boy trying to absorb the Schrodinger's Cat hypothesis. (Look it up.)

"Is this your kid?!"

"Yeah."

"Could you please tell her not to tr and crawl into the laps of strangers?!"

"Oh. Okay. Ellie, come here."

The kid goes over to her mother, but not for long. A few minutes later, she goes over to a group of teenagers trying to do homework. They are more forgiving than I. They let her hang around. So the kid starts goofing off in the booth and she does this thing where she slides, head first, to the floor. The buckle of her little belt catches on the corner of the booth and her fucking pants fall down!

There she is, on the floor of Panera Bread, bare-assed, without a care in the fucking world, and her mother, the human-bovine that she is, lost in the "Family Circus" comic or the colorful array of coupons.

The kid pulls her pants up. I close my laptop. The mother breathes through her mouth. I get up and leave and swear to myself that I'm never going back again.

But, like an abused housewife, I'll be back. At least I can admit it to myself.

But when I go back, I won't hope for fresh food, a clean restroom, or a friendly wait staff. I don't anticipate that the soup will be good, that the soft drinks will be bubbly, that the floors will be swept. No. The only thing I can hope for is that, next time, no attempted reverse-pedophilia will take place, nor will I have to wait in line behind a person who's lived way past the point of their expiration date.

That's all.

So, the next time you're trapped in line or you hear an obnoxious kid getting on your nerves, please think of me. I hope you smile, because I didn't.

Why I Don't Go Out Much Part Two

Actual conversation overheard at Panera Bread.

GIRL: "Why do you watch that show 'The Big Bang Theory'? Aren't you a Christian?!"

GUY: "Yeah."

GIRL: "But isn't that show about Darwin and stuff?!"

GUY: "No, it's about college kids!"

GIRL: "Oh. But still... That title's enough to not make me want to watch it because it denies God!"


Well, I didn't NEED a reason to drink today, but...