Human Waste

Sometimes I just don't understand people. Allow me to rephrase, sometimes I fucking despise people and wish they would cozy themselves in a warm bath and open their wrists in the name of natural selection. Some "human beings" are not even worth the free oxygen that their lungs continue to steal from the rest of us spectacular specimens that actually go out and attempt to live decent lives. At this point you are undoubtedly speculating what incredulous catalyst could have sparked such disdain within a heart as boundlessly understanding as mine.  Well let me tell you.

Yesterday happened to be one of the most sunny, beautiful, and visually pleasing days of the new year thus far.  With this in mind, I decided to take my 3 year old daughter to the park for some good times and healthy exercise.  For the first 30 minutes everything was going great. We were running around, having fun, and everything was pretty zen. That was until the official ambassador of the National White Trash Association decided to show up with her grand kids and fuck it up for the rest of us. I knew we were in for a special treat, when out of the blue cloud of pollution emerged what used to be a red pickup truck. In the front seat was a (thoughtfully positioned) car-seat that would have looked worn for 1986, with a little girl clearly strapped in for maximum safety (there's that pesky sarcasm again). Directly to her left was the grandson of this second generation patriarchal train wreck,  perched on the torn fabric of the embattled seat cushion without any form of safety apparatus (aka... a fucking seat belt).

So as my daughter and I were playing, my nose began to detect the distinctively classy scent-combination of tobacco, body odor, and cheap vodka. Alert, I looked around to identify the source of this offensive bouquet of redneck stench. As I peered in the direction of the playground benches, I could spy this sorry excuse for a grandmother, lighting up a Marlboro red and telling her still innocent grand-daughter that "grandma can't play right now. Grandma needs to sit on the bench so she can smoke her cigarettes and drink her (most likely alcohol infused) coffee." Mind you, this is the worst case scenario.  I often see mom's and grand-mom's of all socioeconomic backgrounds smoking at the children's playground.  This fucking infuriates me to no end.  It's one thing if you want to give your kid second hand smoke, fuck up their health, and promote your adult lifestyle choices upon them, but why the hell does my daughter, who I have meticulously made pain-staking efforts to set good examples for and to make extremely healthy, have to endure your trailer trash, carcinogenic, hillbilly shit-show?  The children's playground is supposed to be a safe-haven for our youth, not a fucking billboard for the Marlboro Man.

I see shit like this all the time.  It wasn't so long ago that my wife and I had went to a late and extremely R-rated movie that included nudity, extreme gore, and massive amounts of cursing. Well, about 20 minutes into the movie we spied a woman who had also come to watch the flick, accompanied by the movie theater manager.  With her was a young girl who was about 7 years old and BABY IN A STROLLER!!! The theater manager then proceeded to assist the woman in positioning the stroller into the empty wheelchair space to her right and to her left sat the little girl.  As the movie became more intense the little girl began to cry and didn't want to watch anymore, but "Mother of the Year" just sat her down on her lap, and said "stop being such a baby."  This must be the same way Dr. Mengele trained the Nazi youth to become such exemplary and loving human beings.  20 minutes after this, the baby starts crying and I'd had enough.  I scream down, "Real great job you're doing there Mom, I'm sure your kids are gunna turn out great!"  In response the bitch answer's back, "who are you to judge me?", to which I retorted "just the guy who your kid's will probably try to rob in 10 years!" My question is, how does this pathetic excuse for a Mom even still have her children and where does the movie theater get off co-signing this bullshit?!? I pay hard earned cash for that theater ticket and that 10 dollar popcorn, so when I go to an adult movie, I don't want to see 7 year-olds and I sure as hell don't want to hear babies crying from strollers.

Later on, around 12:30am, as we were on our way home, I could see the Mother with the 7 year old girl, pushing the stroller through the pitch black darkness on a school night.  I almost hope for the little girl's sake that the mother dies of cancer and leaves her a little bread in insurance money, because she'll have a much better chance in this world without that genetic albatross weighing her down into an inescapable life of ignorance and poverty.

--BK

The Walmart Incident

While departing from Walmart today, as I was strolling back to my vehicular transport, something in the parking lot caught my eye.  The spectacle before me was so horrific I could not help but to stare. As I glanced to the right I could see a black lady in her mid to late 30's loading up a van. As she turned around to stow away her final load, the woman's jacket lifted up only to reveal half an ass peeking over her war-torn grey sweats. If this wasn't bad enough, a split second later I heard the faint sound of copper against blacktop.  She must have dropped some change, because no quicker than you can say "McDonald's Extra Value Meal", she was bending over. This treacherous act consequently caused her beastly britches to slide downward about 4 more unforgivable inches. Somewhere around this point you could timestamp me for the involuntarily uttering of the word "SHIT!" At least I think I said it, or it may have just been what I was thinking, but by this point things got a bit hazy and what I saw next was nothing short of sacrilegious.  Now bent over, exposed at a "non-work safe", 3 to 1 ass to pants ratio, she began to rise to her feet like a veritable trailer park phoenix in all her socioeconomic glory. Right before she reached the full upright position I could see a small piece of toilet paper still hanging from between her massively pimple-laden cheeks. At this point I'm pretty sure I blacked out. The last thing I can recall beyond that, was driving home and noticing that the radio was playing "The Thong Song" from the shitty factory speakers in my Toyota, and me throwing up in my mouth. I think I need to go lay down.

--BK

Conundrum

My wife and I were at a Chick-Fil-A drive through window. We received our food, we were given our condiments, and we proceeded to drive over to a parking lot and begin eating. With my jaws extended and eyes fixed on the impending culinary delight my wife made a comment. As a matter of fact, here is my undoubtedly bias account of the exchange that delayed my much anticipated poultry feast:

Wife: This sucks!

Me: What?

Wife: I'm not happy with the amount of Ketchup I was given.

Me: Why didn't you just specify the amount of packets you wanted? (Good question right?)

Wife: Well...I don't like to admit the amount of ketchup I like to use.

***Insert Time To Process This Statement Here***

Me: Where the fuck's the logic in that?

Wife: Shut Up!

(I pause, think, and say...)

Me: It seems to me my friend, you have come to a crossroads.  You can either man the fuck up and tell that stupid teenager what you want (which seems to me to be the most logical option) or you can let your self-conscience tendencies imprison you to a life of recession sized condiment portions. 

***Thinks about it and begins to eat***

Me: Seriously? Why?

She did respond, but it was hard to decipher through a full mouth of chicken and if she was going to eat now, I wasn't about to waste my precious time arguing when I could be helping those beloved cows from the billboard commercials on their tireless crusade to persuade the humanoids to murder and eat chickens instead of cows.  I really do love those cows. 

--BK

Awareness

Initially I was going to preface this entry with an excuse as to why I did not post yesterday.  Probably something along the lines of not having enough time or that I just forgot (which would be understandable considering my imminent genetic fate), but the reality of this situation was that I was feeling lethargic (aka lazy) and I just blew it off.  If you take issue with my lack of motivation yesterday...FUCK OFF!  I would also like to add that sometimes (as confounded as my compatriots might be to hear me declare) I just don't have shit to say.  Having now exerted precious time and energy into explaining something for which I had no desire to defend, let us push on to more meaningful topics of discussion.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm all for raising money to "Save the TaTa's" or what ever other trite bumper sticker saying has been cleverly crafted to drive this point home (at the expense of gender equality...lol). Hey, I love tits. Breasts (on females) are probably the second most fun thing in the world right behind....video games (Sarcasm!!! Just choose the next "v" word that pops into your head...ok, now we're on the same page).

My quandary lies in the inconvenient truth that not unlike many adolescent teens, we have focused so hard on the boobs, that we have forget about everything else. Off the cuff, right now, can any of you name aloud the color of the pancreatic cancer awareness ribbon? How about the colon cancer awareness ribbon? Just like I thought!  Better yet, to all the men out there, can any one of you tell me the color for TESTICULAR CANCER awareness (and no, it's not blue assholes)? We have become so engrossed in the chesticles, that we have forgotten all about BALL CANCER! Good luck trying to get excited about those spectacular sweater puppies with a cashed out changed purse (or from a coffin). I want to know where the hell I can buy me a ball cancer ribbon? If I set up a website selling these alleged ball cancer banners, would anyone even buy them.  If the ribbons were to gain popularity, would I be in for a house-call from the Susan G. Komen pink mafia?

After a bit of research I was able to uncover the official ball cancer ribbon color (for those of you that even give a shit).  The color is "orchid". That right, I said ORCHID. It's a fucking FLOWER!!! Some asshole, probably nutless at the time, sat around thinking "What color would best represent a cancer that only affects men..." and he said to himself, "Ah yes, Orchid" the color of a pansy ass goddamn flower. You know what Orchid is asshole (this is me yelling at the guy who chose this), Orchid is just another way of saying PINK, and if you think that we men are going to share a color with those breast cancer FAME WHORES then you got another thing coming friend. This is the same organization that partnered up with KFC (yes, Kentucky Fried Fucking Chicken) for a campaign so infamously branded "Buckets for the Cure". When I caught wind of this impending iceberg of hypocrisy, I almost stopped looking at the playboy I was ogling long enough to respond. Can somebody please tell me how a charity who's goal is BREAST HEALTH, could team up with a company who's goal is to sell the most UNHEALTHY BREASTS on the planet? Am I the only one finding this a bit puzzling?  The bottom line here is, we want our own color.  No more orchid. No more pink! We want awareness too. Ball Cancer Awareness! And one more thing people, it's not really awareness anymore if everybody knows about it!!!

--BK

Victim #3

If you refer back to my first post, you will remember how Nate completely lost his shit last week and took to his monitor (R.I.P.) like a keyboard samurai. Well, there is a bit more back story to this treacherous tale of call center rage that I forgot to spill initially (clearly the onset of my unavoidable trip to adult diaperville).  The thing is...the cubicle is cursed. No, really, it is! The last inhabitant of this unsanctified cubby-hole ended up like Jack Nicholson midway through The Shining. The only contrast between the two incidents, is that Nate's predecessor left behind an overturned office chair and some semblance of what used to be a phone.  Now fast forward to the present day. Today, one of my co-workers by the name of Sal, was having issues with his PC and by a cruel act of fate was directed to switch cubicles. That's right, victim number three has just checked into room 1408 and it's time to get crazy! Sal was told by his supervisor that he must move his belongings and occupy the infamous desk of doom. It usually takes about 2 months for the evil to coarse its way into the lowly techie's soul, but by my estimation, Sal should be bat shit crazy and hurling his own feces at supervisors by early Spring. Let's keep our fingers crossed!!!

--BK