Monday, May 12, 2003

Guest beat down today from Bill [disclaimer-words are all Bill's!]:

Women part 1.

I love women, really. I like the whole "curve" and "soft" things that women have. I like the fact that all women wearing sunglasses in a car are about as sexy as any swimsuit model you'll ever see. I like this. I even look forward to this. But I don't look forward to standing in line with women.


I'm glad you asked. The Suburban Soccer mom needs a serious beat down. Not only must I drive behind the new Ford SUV TankII they are driving on concrete, I must do so at exactly two miles an hour over the speed limit. Not five. Not the flow of traffic speed. T w o m I l e s a n h o u r. F o r t h e l o v e o f g o d. I don't drive an SUV. I drive a commuter car. I drive the commuter car because it's friendlier to the environment and cheap. Besides it's made in Mexico. FFS, I'm trying to help our friends south of the border by buying a vehicle made in their country so they won't come to my country and take my job. Say no to Mexican IT workers. Mrs. Suburb Soccer mom insists on buying and driving US Made SUVs. This same person is anti-union, republican and against immigration. Yet insists on buying a vehicle MADE by AMERICAN UNION workers. Talk about your hypocrite.

Eventually we get into the theater. See, while the woman was unloading her passel of pissants, I had to park at the end of the row. And thank you by the way for sitting on your brake for five minutes to get a spot three parking spaces close then me. I saw six spots open and fill up in the next row, but couldn't because that monstrosity that was being driven completely blocked out the sun. Or it was the exhaust fumes. I'm not sure but I really did think I was in a lunar eclipse.

So, expertly blocked by the spread out posse of dna rejects you birthed, you get into line ahead of me. I've looked at both lines and have determined for some reason, that this line of JUST YOU should MOVE FASTER then the line of 50 single males. Man, I could not be more wrong if I tried. I am really glad you decided that your oldest should pay for his own ticket. I don't why you decided today of all days to have little Timmy learn what capitalism is, but I appreciate you having him sort his change on the counter. So did the cashier. Really. What really impressed me is that you then decide to pay for the pack of now rabid kids with a check. I look over and see that 40 single men have now paid for their tickets.

So, despite the obvious pride in seeing your oldest pay for the movie with the blackmail money he got threatening to expose your husbands porn collection to you, you took no time to pre-write the date, the name of who to write the check out for, even look at the costs to see how much you would have to pay for. Nope. None of that. You didn't even rummage through Santa's sack to find the damn checkbook in the first place.

I look over and see 15 more single males have gone through the line next to me. I have a pleading look on my face. One of them gives me a krispy-kreme.

You bend over in front of me. You know it's been a while. I think, fleetingly, "So, this is how you got knocked up so many times." Then I reconsider. No, instead I think of my British friends and the nice cricket bats they have. Good spreadage, and wood. Wood is much better for smacking someone in the ass then aluminum. Bruises less, as any medical intern will tell you. I cannnot transmogrify my car keys into a bat and smack your ass. Instead I can only wish it. I cannot explain to you how much religion I am getting at this time. I feel a whole evangelical movement coming on. Tongues, snakes, and great balls of fire evangelism.

Oh, you forgot your drivers license. That look of disappointment on your fodder fed offspring? It's nothing compared to the rage coursing through my veins. My religion has its Lucifer. You.

And we're working on our swing....