Friday, September 08, 2006

Oh, to live on Sugar Mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons
You can't be twenty on Sugar Mountain

Though you're thinkin' that you're leavin' there too soon.

You're leavin' there too soon.

Hi, My name is Joe. Most people call me the Dude.


Or El Duderino, if you're not into the whole brevity thing.

Anyway, man.

We've got a problem.

Ladies and germs...

Let me begin by telling you about a scourge that is sweeping across our proud nation.

That scrourge, nay... disease has become an epidemic.


You already know what I am talking about: Children.

Little ones.


They are everywhere.

All these people, having all these children.

2.6 kids and a Volvo.

And that's only in this country.

Every 2.7 seconds, a little brown baby is born, in some god-foresaken country, somewhere in the third world, flies a-buzzin', chickens a-cluckin', probably goats, maybe some snakes, and, if you're lucky, a mongoose by the name of Riki-Tiki-Tavi.

If you're lucky, that is.

But anyway, hardly any of these children are being beaten.

At least the white ones.

And, unfortunately, they are the most in need of being beaten.

Please, I implore you, people.

White people.

Beat your children.

Before it's too late.

Please, act now.

Operators are standing by.

Call now.

I'm the Dude, and I approve this message.

Paid for by Friends Of the Dude, Please Beat Your Children, a P.A.C.

P.S. Eva Longoria.

She beats her kids.

You should, too.

Because, it's the right thing to do.

Even the losers
Get lucky sometimes

Wow, what a fruitful trip to the gym this morning.

First, in the locker room, there was the Naked Old Guy Who Doesn't Give A Shit And Walks Around Talking to Everyone. I averted my eyes and mumbled a prayer to Allah that the guy would stop talking about the 8 pound trout he caught the other day and get dressed. Or get hit by lightning.

Then, there were a few Plastic Surgery Victims working out. I want to walk up to one of them, grab them by the shoulders, shake them and scream, "STOP, FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST. YOU ARE 60 YEARS OLD. OWN IT. YOUR TITS AREN'T SUPPOSED TO BE IN YOUR EARS AND YOU ARE STARTING TO LOOK LIKE MICHAEL JACKSON. STOP. JUST STOP."

Then, there was this douchebag working out in a polo shirt with a popped collar. I wanted to drop a 45 pound plate on his forehead to do a favor to the gene pool. I cannot tell you how much the re-emergence of the "popped collar" disturbs me. I thought it was ridiculous in 1985, and it is even more ridiculous now.

I blame the parents. Ever since they stopped beating their kids, and started giving timeouts, society has gone to hell.

In the lobby, as I was leaving, a mother was trying to have a calm, reasoned conversation with her four year old, who was absolutely pitching a fit because he couldn't get his snack at the gym, and was facing a wait upwards of five minutes to get his snack at the bagel store... and This Will Not Stand.

She was politely explaining to her little, unique snowflake from heaven that he would get his snack in a few short minutes.

He wasn't having it, and went to the ground, kicking, screaming and pounding. It was a full-fledged tantrum.

And Miss PC Mommy continues to explain to the little angel that, "Oh, now you know that isn't appropriate behavior for the gym, honey. Do you see anyone else here yelling and kicking on the floor?"


I hate it when parents do that. My internal engine redlines, steam comes out my ear and The Vein appears in my forehead.

The kid needed his ass beaten.

If she had done it, I would have applauded.

Shit, I almost went over and beat him.

Since I have a lot of time, I am going to spearhead a National "Beat Your Kids" Campaign. I will pour all of my resources and energy into this effort. I am serious.

Good workout, though.

P.S. On the way home from the gym, I received the following text message from a friend who shall remain nameless:

"Housekeeping left a booger on the nightstand, so I left a turd in the tub."