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Thursday, September 15, 2016

New Ryde Self-Driving Cars Tell Drivers to Go F*ck Their Own F*ck Holes

(AP) Bentleyville, Pa.- Pull over Uber. New Ryde self-driving cars are here, and you won't want to cut off these mean machines. That is, of course, unless you want to know exactly where to stick it. Spoiler Alert: according to Ryde's automated Pyst Off Driver Insult System (PODIS), the answer is "directly up your lily-white stank ass."


Beginning Monday morning, Bentleyville commuters can opt to be picked up by one of a fleet of Ryde's brand new self-driving cars. What's more, once aboard a Ryde car, passengers can be driven to work with the peace of mind that goes with knowing that the car itself will automatically and reactively tear into the fragile psyche of other overly aggressive dick sucking piece-of-shit drivers.


Ryde commuter sedans are equipped with all the features of modern manually-operated and self-driving sedans alike, and with many luxury features too: heated seats, Sirius Radio, and rooftop cup holders to name a few. But what sets Ryde cars apart from Uber, for instance, is cutting-edge Pyst Off technology. Pyst Off operates in the same manner as...well...a pissed off manual operater. If the Ryde car is cut off in traffic, or has its fender bumped, or worse, the Pyst Off system automatically detects the infraction and engages with extreme prejudice. First, a two-foot metal telescoping pole projects from a slot near the driver's side window. Then a creepily life-like rubber human hand--attached to the business-end of the pole--extends a hearty middle finger skyward. The finger proceeds to violently thrust in the air three times. But that's not all. A pre-recorded demeaning insult--voiced by a celebrity of the customer's choice--is hurled at the offending motorist.  Such insults include, but are not limited to: "Fuck you, buddy," or "Eat my fucking shit you shitty fucking moron," or "I had your bitch-ass mother last night, dick fucker," or even "suck my fucking ass you fucking shit-eating fuck-bag. "  These demeaning insults are voiced by, but not limited to: Morgan Freeman (duh), 15th President James Buchannan, John Wayne, John Wayne Gacy, MLB Hall-of-Famer Andre Dawson, Howard Cosell, Maya Angelo, Bono, the real Elephant Man John Merrick, Ghandi, etc. The thinking goes, once a speeding cock-smoking motorist hears famed children's musician Raffi call them a "retarded ass-munching pud-fucker," they'll think twice about going 45 in a 25 zone.


Ryde is considering adding a new feature that allows the customer to log their own voiced insults in a recording device upon pick-up, to be played back if necessary. Ever want to call a tailgating fuck-faced cock-mobster a "snaggle-toothed cross-eyed fuck" but were too lazy? Just press the button beneath the window-winder and let 'er rip while you read your Facebook feed and sip on decaf Starbucks.


Test audiences have reveled in Ryde's new feature. Local textile worker and reputed family man Biff Webster says he loves the future of commuting. "To hear Margaret Thatcher tell the knock-kneed fuck-renegade who just pulled out in front of me to diddle his fucking tiny snatch whacker...shit, what a fun and relaxing way to get to the plant."

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

17 Easy To Recognize Signs That a Situation Has Officially Devolved Into a Fiasco

-The couch is soaked in cucumber brine.

-Chunks of the front lawn are in the neighbor's swimming pool.
-Said situation has caused every dog within three blocks to "go off".
-The roof is now over there.
-The nextdoor neighbors have "seen some shit go on at that place over the years, but nothing quite like this utter debacle."
-You come to after a blackout and suddenly find yourself face-to-face with what can only be described as "definitely not the pizza delivery guy."
-The FBI negotiator is present, but he has nothing left to offer.
-"Goddammit, the emergency jackhammer was RIGHT FRIGGIN' HERE last time I checked!"
-An ankle is sticking out of the garbage disposal.
-It looks like it's snowing outside, but something tells you that ain't snow.
-"Yeah, your air guitar slayed alright but how are you going to explain that giant fucking hole in the wall to your father?"
-Marsellus Wallace has sent Winston "The Wolf" Wolf to clean up.
-What was a board game closet a minute ago is now what appears to be a swirling inter-dimensional vortex. 
-Something happens that elicits a whispered "There is no god."
-You're STILL waist-deep in expired Crisco and those scaly things with the googly eyes are just 'round the corner.
-It's beginning to look like The Purge up in here.
-A mushroom cloud has replaced said situation.

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

Things More Worth Complaining About Than Colin Kaepernick Not Standing For The National Anthem

-Whoever finished off the coffee didn't clean out the pot...again.


-The weather guy said there's only a 20% change of rain but it's starting to look mighty dark out there and you didn't bring your umbrella.

-Your loafers are starting to become untied.

-Your new sweater vest is a bit frumpy in the midsection.

-That friggin' weed is growing back, goddammit.

-You know you heard your cat throwing up but now you can't find the damned mess for the life of you.

-The power went out for a second and now you have to re-set all the clocks.

-You’re a 49ers fan and your starting quarterback is Blaine friggin' Gabbert.

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

I love you, Alice K 47


Dear Alice K 47,

I know this sounds crazy, but I think I'll in love. Yes, it was just one night, but I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since the Union County Gun Show last Friday. Alice, baby, you are the most gorgeous semi-automatic gas-operated 7.62x39mm assault rifle in the entire world, let alone the wide world of fuckin' awesome firearms.

Sure, I was woozy after guzzling seventeen ice-cold Schlitz at the Funky Bumpkin Saloon when I asked Dale the arms dealer to roll out his wares. And suddenly there YOU were, resting between a Bushmaster M4-type Carbine and a Remington Model 522 Viper…a totally fuckin' badass rose between two totally fuckin' badass thorns. My heart stopped beating for a spilt second. (Of course, that could just be my stupid overactive thyroid, but anyway…) I knew the instant Dale placed you in my hands—after asking me if I was drunk and had proper ID, to which I answered, respectively, "not very", and "does the fishing license on my hat count?"—and I cradled your cold steel butt and smooth, smooth bolt assist mechanism that I wanted to blow the living shit out of something, anything, with you one warm sunny day.

Rush Limbaugh in lederhosen! Just thinking about that moment again causes my palms to sweat. (Of course, that could just be my stupid hyperhidrosis, but anyway…)

I'm convinced it was pure Manifest Destiny that intervened when Dale let me pawn my Make America Great Again camouflage fanny-pack-and-police-baton combo to whisk you away from the Bentleyville Fire Hall for one glorious night. I'll never forget the libido that pulsed through my patriotic loins as I hauled you like a cocked, locked and loaded newlywed back to my doublewide for a Schlitz nightcap.

What happened between us all alone, without the Putin financed NSA peeking around the corner, was sheer 'Murican magic. The way I slooowly removed your barrel jacket…How I geeently stroked your charging handle…When I teeenderly fingered your ejection port. I leaned in to deep throat your sight housing but nudged your trigger in the heat of passion and shot half my goddamn ear to smithereens. Ronald Reagan in a rickshaw, our fore fathers probably creamed in their graves! Who knew your safety was off. Mmm…that's so fuckin' hot! As I scrambled to McGyver myself a makeshift tourniquet to keep two galloons of blood from spraying out my earhole all I could imagine was running off with you to a shotgun wedding. (Ha, Ha. See what I did there, honey gunny.) But seriously, after the bleeding finally stopped and you'd shot your precious load, I pushed aside the empty bags of Cheese Curls and laid you on the futon beside my Glenn Beck Fathead wall decal, wrapped you in the quilt personally knitted by Chuck Norris, and quietly whispered the Second Amendment in your piping-hot greased barrel.

Two days later my mounting passion for you, like my right to keep and bear, well...you, shall NOT be infringed. 

I've been sitting here, alone, in my 1994 Chevy S-10 pickup truck listening to Godsmack deep-cut ballads and Clint Eastwood Reads The Old Testament, and thinking about you. All I got is my memories, and a permanently disfigured earlobe. Like the gunshot residue, I can't get you out of my head. I'm possessed by thoughts of our possible future. Imagine Alice…long walks on a beautiful beach and mowing down a majestic flock of seagulls...just because. Sneaking you into Arby's on a 5-for-5 deal day in case some shifty bugger tries a lil' funny business and we indiscriminately spray several rounds of metal peacekeeping darts all up in his shit and save other clientele from potential harm. Hiking through the park and stopping to instruct the children on the merry-go-round how to properly defend themselves when the government inevitably attempts to overtake the Upside Doodle Playground with their Boeing AH-64 Apache attack choppers and laser-guided bombs. Can't take no teeter-totters from us, Obama.

Shit, the only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is you and me, Sugar Nozzle.

I miss you. I need you. The last few days without you have been torturous. I feel so vulnerable right now, like any ol' Allah-lovin' rapist gardener can piss on my freedom without knowing I can pump their shriveled nuts full of lead. Every single night that passes without you resting in my warm alive hands will slowly kill me anyway. What good am I with cold dead hands? Who will defend the G.I. Jesus statue or Sean Hannity nativity scene on the county courthouse lawn from the atheist lib-turd dingle-fuckers? Who, Alice? Not me. At least not without you.

I love you. Let me help you help me help myself by helping you in turn helping me to help America by virtue of making myself great again.

Be great with me, Alice K 47. Bang! Bang!









Sunday, August 7, 2016

The Sculptor

She is young. She is an artist. She has boundless dreams and steady hands.

The clay is fresh. The clay is moist. The clay is shapeless.

She places the clay on the wheel and presses the pedal that makes it spin. The clay is squishy between her fingers. It kinda' tickles. The clay slides across her palms. It feels good. She strokes the clay deliberately. She smiles as the clump begins to take shape. She is her own master. She will stop the wheel when the clay has become as defined as her boundless dreams.

As the wheel spins…Maybe she stumbles upon a nameless dude in a corduroy jacket amongst a million nameless dudes amid a late night freshman troll on Match. Maybe he finds her affinity for microwaveable teddy bears and the 1978 Dr. Strange TV pilot too irresistible so he speechlessly carves his feelings into her stomach with his finger. Maybe she drinks too much Southern Comfort and asks him "What do you think it would be like to be engaged?" while Jethro Tull's Thick as a Brick plays on vinyl pre-hangover. Maybe he buys a Whiffle ball and rubber bases and sends a group email to friends instructing them to wear shorts and a tee shirt to the reception, where Whiffle ball replaces a DJ. Maybe they exchange wedding vows beside a band shell hosting a puppet show merely 30 yards away.

Though the wheel spins she loses some sight of the clay. She caresses it with her fingers, but with less resolve. Small chunks spit onto her plaid shirt.

Maybe she sees an expecting woman in the infant section at Target and weeps with what she hopes will soon be empathy. Maybe he hides the Parents magazines in the basement because she weeps in her unexpectedly prolonged yearning to empathize. Maybe she weeps when the nurse hands her Uriah because her empathy is fully realized. Maybe he finally weeps too. Maybe they settle on outer space wall decals to decorate the baby's room while they haphazardly redecorate the walls in the new uncharted room in their lives. 

The wheel is spinning…spinning…spinning. She subconsciously weaves her fingers, purposelessly shifting the clay. She doesn't heed the forming cracks.

Maybe she scours the CCAC nursing program website, or nearly aces the PA Civil Service test, or peers over the bobbing head of a still-awake toddler to notice the clock slip to 1:04 AM. She continually strives to be a perfect mother. Maybe he "causes a scene" when Jordy Mercer boots a surefire double-play ball, or orders "one cheese, three craft beers, and an M&M cookie," twice a week, or walks his son about Greenfield to allow Mama the occasional breath.  He continually strives to be an adequate father.  Maybe she wakes up yet fifteen minutes earlier to accommodate a chaotic-er morning because he punched a refrigerator and can't lift more than twenty pounds. Maybe, just maybe, he actually punched a fucking refrigerator and broke his hand like an idiot. Maybe they…

She lifts her foot from the pedal, and the spinning wheel stops. The clay is dry like dirt and amorphous like mud. Her plaid shirt is covered in crust.


He joins her at the wheel. He lifts the clump and holds it in his hands. He wants her to know he's seen nothing so unique--all others are shooting stars, but in a meteor shower; nothing so beautiful--all others are sunsets, but in a world that doesn't rotate; nothing so forever--all others are diamonds, but better left in the ruff. Nothing so befitting an art show all its own.
He tosses a clump of clay--fresh, moist, and shapeless--onto the wheel, and presses the pedal that makes it spin.


...They are young. They are artists. They have boundless dreams and steady hands.



Thursday, July 14, 2016

Where To Begin: A Note On Race Relations, and Neon Green Hats



America is at peak jitteriness. The sound of a child's pop gun may ignite a carousel of panic and chaos that would make the Revelation of Saint John seem like a Webelo campfire singalong of If I Had a Hammer. Racial tensions are steaming, and too damn near a boil. If the scalding water jumps over the pot lip fourth degree burns may result.


I—each of us—step into public eminently cognizant that others are eminently cognizant of not only skin tones, but a history of racial injustice grievous and blunt, subtle and nuanced—despite Facebook status updates and Tweets that identify and define racism, or "reverse-racism," so crudely. Since 1619, the deepest think tanks still fumble with the most intricate dissection of the mechanisms of racism, and racial tension. Therefore, racism and racial tension endures.


By no means do I, especially as a result of this naïve essay, attempt to cool the burner. (Can the burner be cooled, anyway?) I lack the influence and scope, if not necessarily the resolve. But I've been irritated by a sentiment repeated too often by white folk either too shortsighted, or too pigheaded to spin the lazy susan of humanity and fathom what's on the other side.


Hey, men. What's it like to be pregnant? We men—I am, after all, a dude—couldn't describe the physical and mental traits of pregnancy, let alone the pain of childbirth. But I know that pregnancy is both joyous and arduous, at times. Women, my beautiful wife included, have said so. I don't disbelieve women. I don’t disbelieve my beautiful wife. I know childbirth is painful. I witnessed the strain on my wife's face as she delivered my son. I don't think she was faking. If I asked her if childbirth was painful, she'd said "yes, dummy." Imagine if I called her a liar?!


Yet, when black folk publically decry inherent disadvantages in a predominantly white America, too many white folk almost instinctually label them as delusional, or simply rabble-rousing for spectacle. (Author's note: I do not mean to insinuate that every black person recounts the same American experience.) Accounts of the modern black American experience are too often, by too many, jettisoned like junk mail into a star-spangled trash chute.


If I told my wife that the pain of childbirth was a mirage, or worse, that she feigned the pain to get the epidural, I'd deserve a hearty knee to the manhood. Any self-respecting man would leave me to writhe on the tiles rather than help me up. Why do so many white folk so confidently disregard black folk who assert a perpetual awareness of their race in daily life as a result of suffered biases, or prejudiced experiences? Why do so many whites regard the Black Lives Matter movement with suspicion? In short, why do so many white people off-handedly dismiss black people whenever a black person declares that their black American experience is different—less advantageous?   


Hey! Wanna' cannonball into a veritable cesspool of racist sentiment? Read the comments section after nearly every Fox News article, especially if the headline contains the word "Obama". The racism is anywhere between the "magic eye" racism (remember those "hidden" pictures that appeared when you stared long enough) to blunt, cold-cock with a ball-peen hammer on the skull racism. Seriously, the Fox News comments section reads like dialogue cut from the film American History X for being too sensitive.


Spoiler alert. I’m not black. In fact, I’m about as white as can be—nearly pale. But if a black fellow told me he believes his experience is different—more taxing with fewer advantages—I’m going taking him at his word. Why would I not? (Not to mention, facts and stats quantify this position.) What kind of an asshole would I be to reactively assume he's delusional, or a con artist? There's enough assholes in the world already, as they say.

I can’t possibly relate to, or comprehend, the black American experience. If you are white, neither can you. Neither you nor I can empathize. We can never. John Howard Griffin, the author of Black Like Me, darkened his skin with sunlamp therapy, drugs, and creams to try to appreciate the American black experience, albeit in the deep south in 1959. Read his accounts. They’re exactly as you’d imagine.


That a black lady or gentleman is quickly discounted simply because of his or her assertion of bias underscores that there is a bias. (Go ahead, excuse the bias as subconscious. With tweezers I’ve plucked this bias out of its spider hole in the brain. You’re aware of this bias now.) You might as well be wearing a neon green mesh trucker that says Racist Prick if your knee-jerk sentiment is somewhere in the vicinity of “Shut up. You’re wrong even though I can’t possibly have any notion of the black experience in 21st century America,” or sitting somewhere down the pew from “Shut up. You’re lying to stoke racial tension and advance a black agenda.”


It might not be my place to say it but: To those in the neon green hats…Shut up. Shut the fuck up.


To initiate any meaningful dialogue meant to temper and improve race relations starts with the simple acceptance of the viewpoint of the other. Anything less locks the starting gate before the starting gun. Not only is the dialogue stalled, it can not start without a fundamental change in mindset. (Never underestimate the stubbornness of the neon green hat crowd to reconsider anything on the most fundamental level, let alone reconsider removing the peeling Rush Limbaugh Fathead wall decal from their man cave.) 

Childbirth is painful , and the average black American endures systematic struggleseither "magic eye" or ball-peen hammerthat the average white American does not. I believe you. The burner needs cooled before the boil. Now, let's talk.