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A Forgotten Pioneer

I am appalled at Google’s lack of a doodle celebrating the birth of one of history’s finest inventors on this, the fourteenth of July. Not even a simple tip of the Silly Boobs Trucker Hat could be posted to honor Richard “Kewpie Dick” Delahanty, inventor of the aforementioned head wear, the “Junk Drawer Thing-a-Matron 1000” (shown here), and the ubiquitous Banana Seat.

Little is known about his early years, excepting for a rumor that he was the orphaned, unplanned child produced as the result of a tryst between Bella Lugosi and Frida Kahlo. Raised in the basement of a radio repair shop by Romanian immigrants, he learned to speak English by listening to Abbott and Costello, and taught himself to read by using discarded telephone directories, which granted him an encyclopedic knowledge of the city’s inhabitants.

A love for technology and puns drove him to create such wonders as the Alligator, Suede, Leather and Snake Turtleneck Shirt (better known as the “Four-Skin Longsleeve”), a super-absorbent raft/submarine combo called the “Tampoon River Rider,” and a harness for people who enjoy having their legs humped by small dogs, the “Shin-Too,” in addition to the marvels mentioned in the opening. An eccentric in his later years, he collected and arranged Bazooka Joe bubblegum comics into epic tales of adventure, but sadly his life’s work was burned to the ground following an unfortunate incident involving a sparkler and flatulence display, attributed to his heavy drinking and strict diet of bean-based foods. He died of a priapism when he mistook a bag of small pills found behind a pharmaceutical test lab for ice cream sundae sprinkles.

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Editor’s Notes. Again.

Excerpt from the editor’s email, Sunday Morning Mood Killer/Everyone is a Critic/This Really Goes Against the Whole ‘First Day of Spring’ Deal edition:
“I have taken the liberty of once again removing the line: ‘Having only been recently exposed to the English language makes his appointment to United States Poet Laureate (Southwestern Limerick Division) all the more impressive’ from your ‘biography,’ as documentation of the alleged appointment appears to be little more than you responding that the ‘burden of proof is on your ass for questioning such an accomplishment in the first place,’ and that if I would like to ‘continue enjoying the lavish lifestyle that the retainer fee provides, along with the gift subscription to Cat Fancy Magazine‘ that I would ‘recognize my place in the universe’ as being ‘little more than some chubby girl whose poetry is so bad that she has to eek a living by proofreading the work of others’ would probably not stand under close scrutiny.

Also note that the twenty-seven page footnote regarding an ‘asparagus-like pee with no recollection of having eaten the vegetable in the previous day or two’ and it’s apparently ‘having something to do with the old lady that sneezed near me’ and your subsequent reference to yet ANOTHER footnote describing some psychological disorder which ‘the olfactory-borne memories of mothballs, boiled cabbage and Lemon-Scented Pledge, along with the visual of doilies’ has left you with (and that you are “currently self-medicating as a remedy for” using the “remainder of the Enzyte free samples crushed into a fine powder and mixed with flat Coca-Cola to form a paste” which you then explain – in excruciating detail over the course of sixty pages – the process of “spreading the paste over your mid-section, paying close attention to the belly button region” because, and I quote, “that’s where the little bastards put the probes to avoid detection, and the resulting wound provides a faster path to the bloodstream,” which I can only assume is a reference to Chapter 7.4086.3.6.1 – which many may point out appears PRIOR TO CHAPTER TWO – ‘Abs of the Space Gods,’ in which you have drawn a diagram of your penis with the notation ‘Belly button actually appears slightly higher, but was too difficult to draw in detail considering the pushy nature of the Editor and her alleged ‘schedules’ and ‘other such bullshit’ so you drew it ‘hidden ever-so artistically just behind the head, which almost makes it look as though it has an afro’) has absolutely NO basis in scientific fact nor merit. We have been over this numerous times, and the publisher will not accept your “Belch That Tasted Like Bologna Even Though You Haven’t Eaten Any” conspiracy theory — used in a prior revision to support the previously noted ‘asparagus pee footnote,’ and now again here, even after our assumed agreement that it be stricken from the final copy as mere conjecture — as proof of it being a “natural phenomena that some hack like Bill Nye could explore in his down-time between flights to hippie conventions with that other sack of shit,” as it will surely lead to some legal action from his people (although I do agree that they may be, as you so eloquently pointed out in the elevator in which we stood but inches behind them, “moderately-functioning brain donors, and if not that then some inbreeding experiment gone both wrong AND right in some respects”). You are a difficult man to dislike, and for that reason I will continue to read and attempt to edit your work here. Please renew the subscription to Cat Fancy. And also, why not consider a nice gift box of chocolates for this chubby girl to enjoy while she crafts more bad poetry?”

Touche’, Editor Lady. Touche’.

Facebook Privacy? Oh, Puh-leeze.

Dear Facebook “Friend” who continually posts the “Privacy” thing every time it circulates,

If you are posting some copied and pasted “disclaimer” declaring your “rights” regarding any information that you share on Facebook, and honestly believe that you’ve “protected” anything, you are a fucking moron, and should just remove yourself from my “friends” list here.

 
In the interest of brevity, let’s just roll two key things out for you, genius:
 
1. You are using an online service to post your thoughts and likes and gripes, and of course, more fucking selfies of yourself than anyone really cares to see, quite honestly… and you do this by choice. Believe me, it isn’t MY choice to see you on a bench, and then walking, and the drinking coffee, and then with your comb, and then with your dog, and then with your dog and your lunch… YOU select to share this meaningless bullshit, and I simply ignore it, because quite frankly, I’m not impressed that you managed to make a fucking sandwich. You’re (and for the record, you illiterate, self-important shit-bag, it’s NOT “your”) an adult. You made a conscious decision to post the pics. Should someone else be equally as fucking stupid as you are, and select to republish your sandwich selfie as a part of some ad campaign in Azibukistabishkan to sell roof rat-based luncheon meats, then it’s your fault for supplying the imagery to begin with, you simpleton.
 
2. By signing on in the first place, you agree to the Terms and Conditions (that long read you skip past on everything and click “I Agree” to rush into things, because golly gee, Jeb, you jus’ needs to gets yo’ selfie on) EVERY FUCKING TIME YOU LOG IN OR POST. Yes, it says that, fans of literacy. And posting something written by a thirteen year old legal expert from Santa Fe isn’t going to modify that contract. You don’t own the site. Hell, Facebook doesn’t own the site. It’s publicly traded. Take a few hours away from your meaningless life updates (yes, posting a photo of your new iPhone places you into “meaningless” territory, as does any image of you looking at a moon, a car, a place mat, sitting near the booth at that restaurant where they almost filmed a scene in that movie…) and contact the shareholders and board members, and ask each of them if it’s OK to modify the agreement, because holy shit, Universal Pictures is just dying to get at your feed for a movie based upon your updates. Can you see it?
 
“What’s new in Enterainment News? Let’s check in with Brock Hunkley…”
“Just announced today, the script for ‘Final Moments’, the story of robot uprising and armageddon, based upon the true story of some douchebag’s status updates on Facebook is held up in a legal battle following this loser’s posting of a modification to the Terms of Service on their wall. Braiden McSelfimportant had decided to retroactively claim some ownership of the photos of he and his dog licking an ice cream cone in an undisclosed, poorly-maintained backyard, when someone on his Friends list discovered the image being used to inspire the Vietnam War flashback scene in the forthcoming film.”
 
Seriously, no more about this. EVER. There is an alternative to sharing your life and every waking moment online. It’s called “NOT SHARING EVERY FUCKING WAKING MOMENT OF YOUR LIFE ON FACEBOOK.” In fact, while we’re at it, do you know why I enjoy our friendship remaining so damned “virtual?” Simply because I’d probably kill myself if I were forced to be around you and that ever-present fucking phone. There should be a law requiring your sorry ass to carry an old film-based camera, and limiting you to one roll per month, if for no other reason than to get a clue as to what a really important moment is. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all of that considered, become absent. Read a fucking book. Do something constructive for once, and see if it serves to better your vacuous, poorly time-managed life. And then you could display those photos in your own gallery, and retain all of the “rights” you want, you imbecile. Go fuck yourself.

Hugs and kisses as always,

Brian

International Iceberg Lettuce Appreciation Day

Strangely coincidental, two-fer fact of the day:
 
While the Egyptians may have cultivated lettuce in its earliest form (and changing it from an oil-producing weed to a leafy food), and the preparation and serving techniques perfected by the Greeks and Romans, it was Columbus who brought it to America.
 
Strangely enough, what we now refer to as “Iceberg” lettuce was known as “Glasgow Butterleaf” until the horrifying events of April 15, 1912. Stranded for nearly three weeks in the icy, rough seas, and floating in rafts constructed using vintage car parts and draperies salvaged from the wreckage, the victims of the sinking RMS Titanic survived by eating the buoyant foods from the salad bar and burning the contents of a stowaway’s sketch books.
 
Had the trek been reversed, with the mighty ocean liner heading instead from New York to Southampton, the lettuce on board would have been the Americanized “Thick Head” variety, and would have fallen to the ocean floor like a brick. This would have meant makeshift boats loaded with cabbage-farting survivors floating in a sea of asparagus piss, possibly doubling the body count.
 
That said, raise high your Caesar dressing today, on International Iceberg Lettuce Appreciation Day, and sing a few bars of “My Heart Will Go On.”

Conspiracy Theory, “The M*A*S*H Defense” Edition

klinger defense

If you enjoy a solid conspiracy theory like I do, then you’ll no doubt dig this. You can just bet that everything leading to the trial has been placed into hedging all bets on another Kardashian family member’s defense technique: The old “tuck something away to avoid prosecution” maneuver. In this case, we’ll call it the “Klinger Defense.”

You have a dude that’s into some weird shit, right? Whatever. But in true Kardashian flavor, there’s money to be made, so you work a deal around this guy’s weirdness, and get another fifteen minutes of fame. You capitalize on the shock of “the dude from the Wheaties box wears dresses!” and nab some air time. All is right in the world of “fame at any cost” once again for these people who thrive on being paid attention to.

And then he gets in a wreck and someone dies. Uh-oh.

Fearing prosecution, they spin the “dude in a dress” to “he’s a woman now”, and it places the prosecution (and jurors) into the uncomfortable position of choosing to send a guy in a gown to a men’s prison, or to a women’s prison… or simply throwing their hands in the air and saying “fuck this… we have no idea what to do!” After all… he looks a lot different than the driver at the scene, and according to the media, he’s not Bruce anymore. He’s Caitlyn. She’s a new person. Haven’t we seen this before on TV cop dramas?

Much as Maxwell Klinger sought Section 8 discharge on the TV show M*A*S*H, this guy has taken the concept far downfield, and is hiding behind a serious issue, using it to avoid punishment. It’s genius, really. Manipulate the people just enough for empathy, utilize the media like a politician to plant the right buzz words, and then once they have what they need, they abandon the bandwagoning supporters (namely those who may suffer from some form of gender dysphoria), and he sashays off into the salon. And if you don’t think for a minute that some writer scripted the whole “But gosh, Bruce, Caitlytn, whatever, you’re a Conservative who is against gay marriage?” thing as the perfect doubt-filling seed to plant, then you may just be a stupid enough motherfucker to serve on the jury. Just a touch of controversy to make his “transition” seem all the more real, and give them that oh-so-typical backup argument should they be confronted. Looks strong on the surface… But if you know me, I love finding the cracks.

KLINGERGATE.

The whole thing smacks of the OJ/Robert Kardashian hidden murder weapon controversy, as well as the glove fiasco. Double-down on that with support from the President (speaking of media-manipulated gain) and coincidentally-timed awards for “courage” and such nonsense, and the picture of the “tragic hero” is painted with wonderful colors… Look at the under-painting, though, and it’s an ugly mess of the same bland technique we’ve seen time and again from those who think they’ve earned some station in life that is above the law. It leaves me with some concern for all of the “transgender community” supporters, wondering just how many of them are prepared to be run down by this self-serving use of their plight? You’d have to imagine that, should the truth come out looking as described here, that their cause would be set back decades… But much as Hillary would throw around the phrase “champion of women’s rights” and step on the carcasses of feminists everywhere to reach her goals, you can’t escape the feeling that this guy is no different, and has entered a world of ambiguity on so many levels that finding any way back to normalcy is a futile escapade in even the simplest sense.

Am I totally on board with this conspiracy theory? My personal jury is still out on that. I’m just waiting for the trial, and hoping they’ll present the argument that “Caitlyn here couldn’t possibly be the same persona as the driver of that Escalade… That is clearly a man, and she’s, uh, sort of woman-ish,” and then they present the wardrobe of the driver from that fatal day.

The lawyers, beaming with self-satisfaction will go on to explain that “with her breasts, there is no way that shirt could button around the breasts. If the shirt doesn’t fit, you must acquit.”

Roll credits.

Builder VS Accessory Installer

patina squarebody
I was recently asked an interesting, if not loaded question:
 
“Why do you hate patina builds?”
 
And that had the effect of pissing me off, because it proves that very few of these motherfuckers read anything beyond a word or two. I don’t “hate” patina. That would be a logical impossibility, or at the very last a psychotic reaction to something meaningless on any scale of importance, no matter how pathetic or sheltered your life may be. It simply wouldn’t make its way onto my list of things I truly give a shit about if I had to carry that list deep into the ten thousandth power.
 
“A better way to phrase this,” I responded, “would be to ask why I hold little respect for calling them ‘builds’ in the first place. And I say ‘little’ because with anything, there may always be an exception. I like to leave room for that, just in case.”
 
There is no design. There is no requirement of planning, beyond shopping in a catalog for what parts to replace with new bolt-in’s. It is an act of pure accessorizing, with apologies to that word for lessening its meaning in this respect. Unless you are creating an entirely new chassis, engineering fresh parts and whatnot to make this particular “barn find” (and for fuck’s sake, enough applying that word to every damned vehicle that has oxidized paint – if you literally discover a barn lost to the ages, and there is a mystery vehicle inside of that building, then yes, you have a barn FIND. We have been over this ad nauseam.) into something far outside of anything seen before in functionality, then you’re simply cloning the last 600 features from that magazine, you half-wit. To say that you “designed” a patina “build” is tantamount to saying that you “invented” a new dish for dinner, because you accidentally spilled canned chili on the spaghetti. Your reference to yourself as a “builder” or “designer” are what I’d refer to as “a real head-scratcher”, or maybe something closer to “obscenely over-optimistic”. What you do is truly something that anyone with some hand tools and general knowledge could pull off. It’s the color-by-number of the hot rod world. If it weren’t, there would be some variety. Think about it.
 
I view this “barn find, patina truck” scene as the dope-addled cousin of the “rat rod” movement: It’s a cliched caricature of anything it set out to be. These guys thought that a crusty exterior, set on a stance that looks broken at best was a way to be unique… a rebellion against a “sea of red ’32 Fords.” Now we have a sea of rusty C-10’s on smoothie wheels that look like the suspension just gave up. Sweet turn radius, pal. Almost as cool as that flat-brimmed hat holding your ears in. Can never be too safe.

I work my days away trying to help clients get the most of their vision into a build. I enjoy the guys who have PASSION and drive. That willingness to dive in and create something unique… an expression of an emotion in a mechanical object. These are the clients and the sort of car guys I want to be around, and enjoy the company of. On the other hand, I see the “patina” guys as looking for the quickest buy-in, and can’t jump that hurdle.

 
In fact, when you consider it, calling yourself a “builder” if all you do is slap a few parts, smoothie wheels and some airbags from a catalog under a rusty vehicle, that’s like playing the video game Rock Band, and calling yourself a “musician”. I certainly wouldn’t sign you on. Besides, I’ve heard that song played correctly a million times before. Even your best note-for-note rendition brings on a yawn no matter how ironic that retro script is across the face of your late-model amp.

Scratching the Surface

unrestored super bee emblem

My earliest memories are loaded with inquisitive adventures. I was one of those kids who would take everything apart to examine and explore all of the inner workings of virtually anything I could get my hands on, just to see what made it function. Occasionally, I’d manage to put everything back in some semblance of working order, as well, which had the effect of encouraging my seek-and-dismantle missions. Oh, certainly, there were misadventures, and the Frankenstein-ing of a few, less-than-fortunate items into, well, objects whose end purpose was quizzical at best, and dangerous at worst, but it fed a child’s mind, and paved a few neural pathways with some rudimentary engineering knowledge.

patina VS restored

It’s no surprise, then, that I became fascinated with cars over time. That fascination grew from bicycles (as most of us in this car thing start out) to nearly anything mechanical. The function of some machine is a marvel on nearly every level, from the very idea for the machine, to the design, to the final step of manufacturing, it’s a nearly-miraculous series of events that bring such things into our lives. When you stop to consider all of the intricately connected things that need to occur to create something that works, it’s mind-boggling! Imagine, then, just what has to happen to create an automobile, with the many systems and subsystems which need to function in some sort of harmony; having so many computers and sensors in a new vehicle, the sheer number of things working together is exponential. If you look only at the surface, at the sum of the parts, a mechanical creation like the automobile becomes almost magical. But, if you scratch the surface, a whole other world opens up.

I mention this obsession of mine simply to set the stage for an even deeper fascination I have for what happens to a machine when it is no longer deemed ‘useful’. That tipping point wherein someone makes the decision to park or part with a machine that has either become less reliable, or perhaps even inoperable. Having that ‘need to see what makes anything tick’ personality trait, I’m also burdened with the constant whispering of ‘we can fix that!’ in my brain. That urge to dig in, and see just where the trouble might be. As a self-described automotive archaeologist, I feel this urge, this need to discover the story behind the car, the owner(s), the events which conspired to place a particular car at that specific place and time… The adventures, the trials, the memories made in and around the time that car was in the care of whomever it was while all of these things were occurring. I’m the kind of guy who utilizes a mental list of the cars I’ve owned as a key to the events that occurred in my life at a particular time. It’s a way to mark a timeline, and cements that car as a part of who I am, or was to become, be it based upon a repair I learned to make on that car, or even a simple memory of the exhaust note. Knowing that one or two of my past rides is being preserved and made a part of someone else’s life gets a little warm and fuzzy feeling going, and when I see an old machine brought back from the brink and being used by someone else who appreciates this particular love for mechanized mysteries, well, it’s game on for me. I want to hear the tales, listen as someone recalls the good old days, or imagine what happened during those gaps in a car’s history.

unrestored pace car retored challenger pace car

Walking the grounds at the Carlisle All-Chrysler Nationals some time back, I was surrounded by many examples of beautifully preserved and restored examples from the brand’s past. Spending hours looking over the survivor cars on hand (there was a great display of Mopar Survivors under a special tent, by the way, showcasing a number of very well-preserved cars), both in the show proper, as well as the car corral and swap meet, I found my attention drawn back to a certain few cars that were, well, somewhat worse for wear, cosmetically. Cars with some great age and patina, working together to create some outstanding character. Every dent, crack in the vinyl, faded stripe or rock-chipped emblem quietly whispering its tale. My ears were certainly tuned-in and ready to hear of each incident and passing year.

barn find super bee

Just why I was attracted to these cars was no mystery: That love for all things mechanical, with the added bonus of the story. Those missing puzzle pieces to explain why this car was left outdoors, or forgotten about, or even neglected were bouncing around in my mind. And, as an artist, the textures and patterns of the paint chips and rust and weathering were simple mesmerizing. The blemishes and dents and cracks and checks on the surface that tell part of the tale, leaving the rest just below to be discovered. On a few grand occasions, I’d spot a preserved or restored example of a car I’d just seen in weathered condition, and to compare the two begged the question:

If you were to find a complete original, but weathered example of your dream car, would you leave it alone visually, opting only to repair and update the mechanical parts to make it road-worthy, or dive in and restore it? Granted, you could have your cake and eat it, too, by working out some mechanical and safety issues and enjoying it as a time capsule, and then go for the restoration. Being of the inquisitive sort, as we explored earlier, either path might prove a challenge for me. On one hand, having an untouched piece of history would be incredible, in that I’d be afforded a vehicle to explore some mysteries, and could research and fill in the holes, all while preserving it in as-found condition. On the other hand, I could tear into it, and make some discoveries about its past as I took it back through time to as-new condition, and cater to that side of my brain that just wants to tinker with something, and (hopefully) improve upon it.

What would you do? Taking that a step further, what memories are you making in your currently-owned ride (be it new, old, restored, or even a barn-fresh time capsule) and are you taking any steps to document the car for future automotive archaeologists to enjoy?

All Things are Delicately Interconnected

robert t lane memorial
I have always held the feeling that all things are delicately interconnected. That belief that certain things happen for certain reasons at certain times and among a certain group of slightly more-often-than-not less-than-certain people.
 
I have come to understand this phenomenon with somewhat more clarity as I’ve aged and (gasp!) “matured” a bit. I’ve found myself in situations or places that were simply far more relevant to me or to who I was to become than could be left to pure chance, or that very often transcended mere “coincidence”, and have grown to really appreciate those moments for all that they are. I have developed a personal philosophy that within these chance moments we get a glimpse of what the meaning of life really is… And that if you;re lucky enough and smart enough, and have some patience to examine the facts, you can figure it all out. I’m nowhere near that level of maturity, but I sure as hell can make some good use of the first part of all that.

9-11 healing field

 
Case in point: This past weekend we visited the 9-11 Healing Field Memorial at Tempe Town Lake, and I was blessed with another of those moments, via a man I never met, nor will on this Earth. I learned a bit about Robert T. Lane. There, in a field of three thousand flags representing the victims of that terrible day, you could read a bit about each of the people who lost their lives at the hands of cowards, and gain a deeper understanding of the tragedy through the “human factor.” Of the thousands of cards, one just called out to me, and I understood why immediately.

memorial flag

 
He was a car guy.
 
And his memorial card read like something I’d write. The Mom who doesn’t quite get the car thing, and the guy who just wanted to build something cool. Along that way to building a G-Body, he became someone willing to risk his life for the sake of another. Unfortunately one path happened to supersede the other in the worst of ways.
 
He was a selfless hero.
 
I thought long and hard about that. Here I was, connected with a guy I never met… We were just about the same age at the time of his death, and this laminated card giving remembrance to him provided the insight to an answer I had been seeking over many months. Oh, I’m certain that one could come up with a connection for nearly anything, but this felt a bit more direct, and was tailor made for the situation I find myself in.
 
He managed to help a fellow car guy without having even been there.
 
Bigger than any of that was having the honor of sharing the memory of a hero I had never known before that moment. Having met a fellow car guy with whom I could relate to, and finding a connection through a chance encounter in the middle of a park on a humid Summer day… And coming to understand that I simply needed to look at a situation from another point of view to understand it, and get past it with clarity. I truly hope that if his family or friends happen upon this post that they know my appreciation for their lost loved one. It’s one thing to be remembered, but quite another to have the strength of character to continue to affect another after life is stripped from that individual. Mr. Lane is a hero beyond mere measure, and I had the opportunity to experience his greatness via the random action of reading a card on a flag pole.
 
All things are delicately interconnected indeed.

The Changing Face of Language

We live in the scariest of times… We witness the revision of the present day alongside the careful editing of history. It strikes me as both odd and funny at once that “new” words are added to the English language, or worse, EDITED TO HAVE THEIR MEANINGS CHANGED.

The latter seems to coincide neatly with some politically-correct dickhead wishing to add a “softer” word to describe something, or worse, some degenerate who expects the world to alter their fucking viewpoint regarding some personal preference of this entitlement-seeker, and by commandeering an existing word and altering its meaning, or developing some fresh jargon to more adequately appease them.

For instance, with this Bruce Jenner in a dress bullshit… He is not a “woman” in any respect, be it “trans” or any other catchy, new-age bullshit prefix. If he took a transcontinental drive in a Trans Am to the Transamerica Pyramid Center while listening to a transistor radio as a friend in the passenger seat transcribed the transmissions of the radio show (discussing transmutation of water into wine), and mis-translating the hoots and howls of the transient illegal immigrants being transported into California, the situation would no more make him a “woman” than would lighting a Pop Tart on fire make it fucking Baked Alaska.

We’ve fallen into this wormhole, wherein we are expected, nay FORCED to bow to the whims and fancy of whatever brain-damaged spoiled brat deems as his or her (or, should you attend the University of Tennessee – that alone begs for me to seek mercy on your soul in the first place, you illiterate turd – the all-inclusive non-gender pronoun “ze”… what in the fuck?!!) “right” to some “respect”, simply by altering the fucking language. We are surrounded by these hashtag-using pukes on their giant phones who are so utterly disconnected to reality, yet so “connected” to social issues that they automatically assume that the two are directly interchangeable. There is no transference in this manner. You simply cannot be so far removed from reality that you can see fit to change it, simply because you “feel” something. It simply doesn’t work that way. Unless, of course, you have allowed the public school system to raise your kids, and you’re transfixed with fear that your offspring will go on a Twitter rant about what an awful sperm donor (or recipient) you are because you don’t understand them and these “feelings.” And if I cannot discern your gender, especially if you’ve taken steps to alter it to make that so, then please explain to me just how in the Hell it becomes my fault that you feel bad or misunderstood, or how I am not “paying conscious attention to your emotional state,” you freak? All of these fringe weirdos demanding “acceptance.” Here’s a thought: JUST LIVE YOUR FUCKING LIFE, AND STOP FORCING ME TO LOOK AT YOU. If I don’t see you, the chances are greatly improved in your favor that I won’t point and laugh at you. It’s as simple as that, honestly. That’s like dressing up as The Mummy for Halloween, but creating your costume from yellow feathers and beak, and then wondering why the other kids are calling you “Big Bird.” A little logic goes a long way there, cupcake. A decision to be “different” or your “inner self” is on YOU, and not me. Should you possess some “great strength and courage” to become your inner weirdo, then at least have the fortitude to take a few jokes at your expense. THAT is the sign of strength or courage… Not crying to just be loved, or protesting to force someone to accept your individual desire. Seriously. There we go, changing the meanings again. And to be frank, I don’t give a flying fuck if you like it, or if it makes you sad. I’ve never come to your door and forced you to gaze upon the Conservative white guy who enjoys punk music and guns and cars and women and B-movies. And I certainly have never forced you to alter your language or manner of thinking to accept with blind certainty that my selection of a lifestyle is protected by any law or otherwise. Force of a belief always meets resistance. That is an irrefutable fact. Going about finding acceptance via a less aggressive manner would breed infinitely more positive results, but it’s probably far less profitable. You’ll find a similar peace and far less self-inflicted suffering once you grasp that, you entitlement-age puke.

Certain words have EARNED their definitions and use and stature in the language. They command a respect for the things they are used to represent. And respect is earned, not forced upon anyone. And while I’m certain that the lily-livered liberal, entitlement-seeking generation we have now will change all of that in the future, you can bet your ass that it won’t be changing soon in my house. Even if your son drops by and threatens to hit me with his purse.

Gondola: Stick a Suppository Up Your App

gondola app

Brian’s Billion-Dollar Business Ideas #5,688,004: Whet Your APP-etite.

For the people who just need to share fucking EVERYTHING, and document each cup of coffee and meal and trek to Target and each time their dog wags its tail and they get the car washed and, well, go get the deal… Welcome to Gondola.

Sure, there are apps to track how many times you poop, and just how much, or even WHERE you’ve dropped dookie. But not one could tell you WHERE IT WENT once you pulled that lever.

Until now.

The Gondola app, via our unique suppository (developed with Garmin), can track your poo from the source to the waste treatment plant. Prefer to drop one in the woods? See if it gets disturbed for up to thirty days! Share the progress of your poop as it winds its way through miles of sewer on top social sites like Facebook, Twitter, and even Chaturbate! Tag your friends, and cheer that turd on. In-app purchases available from sponsors like Green Giant, Planters and Charmin. Ships with seven starter suppositories and sample Tweets.

Gondola: The world’s number two fecal finder.

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